


Redemption Blues

by clownsick, JessenoSabaku (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst, Comedy, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, accidental partners, fighting back to back, honor mission, suppressed hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownsick/pseuds/clownsick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/JessenoSabaku
Summary: While on a mission to redeem himself in the eyes of his clan, Hanzo Shimada becomes indebted to a reckless vigilante, who constantly throws himself headlong into danger. The two clash in every way, except on the battlefield. There, Hanzo rediscovers the feeling of having someone to cover his own weaknesses.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a writing exercise with the lovely JessenoSabaku and metastasized. We didn't want to be McHanzos, but here we are. Feedback would be much appreciated.

Moonlight bathed the desolate Kingsley group shipyard, turning up bits of silver in every nook and behind every rusty metal trailer left from when the last owners cleared out. Of course, the shipyard went by a different name--Ishmael Enterprises--a company that went bankrupt decades ago. The name was as dead and untraceable as the group it covered for. And the shipyard was not nearly abandoned as wanton neighborhood kids hoped when they wandered there in the middle of the night. Hanzo saw this for himself as he jumped from his single-person motorboat onto the dock, scaled its monumental face, and peeked over the lip to see multiple searchlights keeping careful watch. His lip curled in disgust as he climbed onto solid ground and shot off, weaving around the beams. He was headed for the main warehouse complex on the far end of the dock.

Kingsley was coming back from the dead. He didn’t want to believe it, had hoped he only received some misinformation, but he knew this lonely presence. Kingsley could never hide themselves without some glaring show of life. Who needs searchlights for a shipyard that hasn’t received a shipment in years? Nobody does. Hanzo supposed nothing less could be expected from Yankees. When people meet California air, see the beach-flanked high-rise condos and the financial opportunities, they change.

Once the Kingsley group had been a friend, sending men, arms, and biotech at a moment’s notice to aid the Shimada. After Hanzo left the clan, they saw Shimada was weak, and struck without warning. The bloodbath that ensued consumed the nightlife of several cities in Japan. The Shimada just barely fended off Kingsley, sustaining immense loss of life and capital. No one ever saw from or heard of Kingsley ever again--and the Shimada tried their damndest to find those who escaped. Nobody knew why or how long the betrayal had been planned until now, years later, after the remainder of the Shimada intercepted an incriminating broadcast from Talon. A mediating confidant allied with the family dug deeper and brought Hanzo some coordinates. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

The warehouse doors were bolted shut and the windows blocked with planks. Hanzo climbed on the roof and pulled out a small dagger, wedging it between the planks to try and pry them off. They came away with a raucous splintering. He paused and listened, but no blaring alarms sounded, and no footsteps approached. He dropped down and hung from the roof, bracing a foot against the wall, and held his dagger aloft while he peered through the open window. Nobody in the immediate area. Pocketing the knife, he slipped in and dropped silently to the ground, immediately drawing his bow.

The warehouse was stacked high with metal and wooden crates, leaving a jagged-toothed path through the grim interior. Behind Hanzo, a soft white light drifted in--the only light in the room. Luckily, night vision was one of Hanzo’s strengths. Even so, the warehouse held an uncomfortable aura in the dark. Though nothing seemed out of place, Hanzo could not let go of the notion that something was wrong once it burrowed into his mind. He kept close to the walls, making his way across the area.

As he approached an open door the sound of gunfire pricked his ears. It was far away and tinny, no doubt coming from another level. The warehouse was large and imposing, but it did not have much in the way of height. Hanzo’s brow furrowed with disapproval as he crept into the hallway, following the sounds now rather than his own sight.

When he approached a dingy staircase the sight filled him with foreboding. There were bodies littered on the stairs, scattered carelessly all the way down. It did not take close inspection to see the gunshot wounds. Whoever had beaten him to the chase was no doubt downstairs finishing up their work. He would have to raise his guard even more. There was no telling what sort of assassin had been sent before him.

The light padding of his feet down the stairs was too loud to his ears as he strained them, listening for more shots. Silence, and then -- a cry echoed from down below and he rounded a corner, flying down more stairs. Adrenaline coursed through him. They were not far now. He wound his way down the hall, avoiding the bodies left scattered on the ground.

Down the hall Hanzo could see the entrance to a room guarded by two double doors. What little he could see inside were the blurry shapes of machinery, the sounds of them grinding together doing more to paint the picture. It seemed he had stumbled on some sort of underground factory.

Hanzo came to an abrupt stop as a man stepped out of the room, slow and wavering. An arrow was raised in an instant, ready to fire, but the man only stared at him in shock, hand grasping at the bloody front of his shirt. He fell to the ground, dead. Behind the spot where he had just been standing, backlit by a nearby electrical furnace, a shadowed figure stood facing him, gun drawn. Hanzo quickly activated the scatter module on his arrow, ready to blow the whole place if needed. Just before he could call out, the figure turned and ran, disappearing with a flick of wide, red fabric.

“Stop!” Hanzo shouted, diving into the room. He rolled for cover and looked out, seeing the figure disappear into the dimly-lit factory. Gun sparks bloomed like spider lilies in the blackness, lighting up more enemies who fell to this assassin’s well-timed shots. He descended down what looked like a flight of narrow stairs.

Hanzo gritted his teeth and darted out, giving chase, while the rusty mechanical sounds intensified in his ears. He switched his arrow module to sonar and ran down the stairs. He felt them more than he saw them, and after three steps leapt down, rolled on the ground, and shot his arrow blindly into the room. The sonar lit the whole room in a brief wave of iridescent blue, including the gushing blood of a man he’d just skewered through the neck. It flashed just long enough for Hanzo to see at least five other men ducking behind clanging machines. He switched his module back to the scatter shot, fired at the floor between all the enemies, and then dove for cover behind a nearby metal crate. Six arrow fragments ricocheted off the wall in a cacophony of screams and metal ringing. So much for a silent entry--but that assassin had already blown the lid off stealth.

He shot another sonar arrow into the wall to see if the man had been smoked out. The blue wave washed over a door in the far wall swinging wide open, that red fabric whipping away. Hanzo took off after him again, down another set of stairs and into a much brighter but still dimly lit area. This was a much larger portion of the factory, filled with multiple winding paths through lumbering, ominous machines. There were no good vantage points. He cursed under his breath and let his instinct choose a path for him. He ran into the maze of machines.

This area had not been breached yet and after climbing up to perch on one of the larger mechanical structures it became apparent that the room was housing their retreat. A large number of men were illuminated by a sonar arrow and Hanzo began to make his way forward, firing arrow after arrow.

It did not take long for him to reach the center. Backup had amassed at the sides and he had no choice but to jump down, backing into the open space as he downed the snipers. Their bullets sprayed closer to his feet and he cursed. He could not allow himself to be drawn out into the open. He could not--

Despite expert precision and practiced awareness of his surroundings, Hanzo’s back hit something solid. It did not waver and he had only a moment to glance back and confirm that it was a man before firing again. The presence did not move from behind him, leaving barely a breath of space that closed with a brush, in time with a loud gunshot. Hanzo fired off another arrow and glanced back again, this time catching the red gush of fabric that betrayed the assassin, but still nothing else. He supposed he should be thankful to have that gun on his side.

Emboldened, he held the bow higher and fired another arrow that sent one man spiraling to the ground in an arc of blood. Each further shot drove into its mark, first a heart, then another man’s stomach, everywhere Hanzo aimed another man fell, all to the chorus of gunshots and grunts at his back. And there were men in every corner of his vision. He quieted himself, spared a millisecond to take as deep a breath he could, and closed off every sense but the vibration of footfalls and the slow-motion approach of enemies. One, two, three. The mark dies, another arrow from the quiver. Again.

He slowly began to realize that each movement he made was shadowed by the presence behind him, every open blindspot instinctively covered. His blood slowed down, pumping in time to the steps of the assassin, until even their breathing seemed choreographed. The assassin started to feel it too, Hanzo sensed the change, sensed them fall onto the same wavelength. In one moment when Hanzo struggled to pull his arrow, he felt another shift behind him, and ducked down. He heard a gun discharge over his head, saw the nearest enemy drop, and finally freed the shaft from its quiver. Another gun went off behind him, not the assassin’s, and they both whipped around still back to back so the bullet could pass through the space between them. Hanzo heard a huff of laughter from his temporary ally as their backs slammed together again.

An audible retreat was called by a few remaining grunts and the shots towards them became sparse. When the last rounds had been fired the two were left standing in the middle of the room, breathing rough from exertion. Hanzo was not inclined to be the first to speak, already formulating a plan for if the man chose to turn on him. He was confident he could take any man at a long range, but he had seen for himself the gunman’s skill. He had begun to draw another arrow when he heard the man turn his head and felt the grumble of his words through his back.

“Well. Didn’t expect a Shimada to show up.” The man’s accent was thick and it was at first difficult to discern what he had said. The mention to his name was undeniable. Hanzo spoke, fingers restless on his bow.

“What did you say?”

“You are, ain’t ya? I’m not one for makin’ wild guesses without good reason.” When the man spoke again the vibrations filled out what Hanzo’s eyes could not see. He was larger than him, most likely skilled in hand-to-hand combat - or at least able to overpower him at such a short range. Perceptive, too, as his next words held a cautious tone. “Whoa, there, no need to get all hostile on me.”

Hanzo’s eyes instinctively mapped out a plan of counterattack. If he heaved forward with all his strength, he might be able to get behind a machine and prepare an arrow. But the thought of running away and hiding made his stomach curdle with shame. The reason he came to this damned shipyard in the first place was to make up for running away.

“I have every right to be hostile,” he spoke in a terse, low tone. He took a deep breath. “But that would be unsightly, given what just happened.”

Despite his reluctance to leave the safety of their joined stance, he turned around, lowering his bow but gripping it tightly--prepared at any moment. He took in the sight of a broad back and the trademark red, not just a gush, but an entire waterfall draped down the other man’s back. An obscenely audacious brown leather hat obscured his thick hair, and Hanzo wondered how this man could’ve gotten the drop on anyone. Maybe the Kingsley Group was losing its touch.

Or maybe he was just that good. Maybe Hanzo had felt it, fighting back to back with him.

“I am no longer of the Shimada,” he answered, but his generosity stopped there. “But if you have already seen through me, at least let me see the face of the man who fought beside me.”

The man made a gruff sound that Hanzo could neither identify as approving nor refusal. He realized belatedly that he might be laughing at him but had no time to linger on affront. The man turned himself, revealing a rugged visage and unsightly facial hair.

“Name’s McCree. Now listen well, Mr. Shimada. I’m fixin’ to blow this place to the ground, so unless you’re hightailing it out of here now, I suggest we stick together until this is through. My best bet is yer goin’ after the same person as me, so the more firepower we have behind this the better.” The man paused, brown eyes moving over his face expectantly. “Sound good?”

Some of the finer metaphors flew past Hanzo’s understanding, but he got the gist of the current situation--this building would be gone, possibly in a matter of minutes, and himself too unless he kept in line with this … McCree.

“Whoever you wish to kill will die. They all will,” Hanzo answered gravely. The fact that he was beaten to the punch made his blood boil, but he could worry about that later. Now was the time to carry out his mission, at all costs. And to make sure he wasn’t stumbling into a trap. “You lead, and I will shoot.”

“Much obliged.” McCree tipped his hat and turned with an unnecessary swish of fabric. He began to reload his gun as he disappeared into the labyrinth of machinery. Hanzo followed, scanning their surroundings. As they made their way back, McCree threw words over his shoulder.

“Dunholm’s the man I’m lookin’ for. Short, kinda scrawny. Fucked up eye. Once he’s out, I’m out.” They approached two locked doors, barricade visible from the other side. McCree cocked his gun and gestured towards it with his head. “Gonna be a lot of fire once we kick that thing in. Any assistance you provide will be much appreciated.”

He lifted a small device from his belt and stuck it to a door, moving forward to do the same to the other. Once he had he stepped back and waved at Hanzo with his hand, encouraging him to do the same. He raised a small switch, counting down in a mutter, then flipped it. Immediately the doors were blown in, metal and wood spraying into the room. McCree ducked into the room, rolling to the side and starting to run, firing shots in rapid succession.

Hanzo tumbled in behind him, drawing in a breath through his teeth as he saw there was absolutely no cover on their side of the room. There were some desks and lounge chairs on the far side, if he and McCree could make it far enough. Up at the head of the room was the man he described, surrounded by seven men in black suits who toted large semi-automatic weapons and had the gall to act threatening. Some of them being men Hanzo was acquainted with when the Kingsley members were friends. Time to finally put them in their place.

He activated his scatter module and fired straight into the chest of the man nearest Dunholm. Fragments bursted out in a wash of blood, screaming just barely past his chest and into the head of another of his bodyguards. Another guard caught shrapnel in his hand and fumbled with his gun. As they staggered in shock, caught off-guard and bumping into one another, Hanzo quickly loaded up another arrow and killed a third guard, then another, and fired another scatter shot when the fifth guard finally got a proper grip on his gun. He went down, and his friend endured a rebounded fragment in his side. Only he and the man with a wounded hand remained.

The element of surprise having worn off and McCree in need of support, Hanzo began to quickly strafe back and forth across the room, firing at the enemies going for McCree’s blind spots. An arrow whizzed past McCree’s head, nearly taking his hat with it, to lodge firmly between the eyes of a well-dressed goon with a pistol. McCree, for his part, was putting up a much more stylish performance, shooting two enemies dead in the eye and pistol-whipping another who had the nerve to come up behind him. Hanzo gave him the best support he could, picking off enough enemies so that McCree could push through to Dunholm--always staying at a fair distance, but undeniably encroaching along with his newfound ally. And the further they charged, the more cover presented itself, giving McCree the chance to dive out of fire and Hanzo the opportunity to take out the last two bodyguards who had finally managed to raise their guns.

He saw McCree turn back to glance at him while crouching behind a desk near the front of the room. Hanzo discreetly gestured with two fingers towards the target and nodded, readying an arrow. This time, he would get up close and personal.

It happened in a matter of seconds. McCree approached the man as Hanzo delved into the final huddled group of members - frightened, nervous men who had not seen enough days on the field to know better. They were easy to pick off and he watched out of the corner of his eye as McCree shared words with the man, sounding uncannily civil for the situation. They had both drawn on each other, but even at this distance Hanzo could recognize the man as a coward. His visible eye was calculating and shrewd.

The final member had the gall to attack with a knife to Hanzo’s back. He dodged it easily, swinging his bow around the man’s neck and pulling the string taut. His heart pounded steadily in his chest as he strangled him, turning his head just in time to see Dunholm change the course of his aim to set it squarely between Hanzo’s eyes. He pulled the trigger.

McCree lifted an arm, using it to take the shot, then returned fire. Dunholm slumped dead in his chair.

The shock was enough to make Hanzo’s grip grow slack. The man slipped out of his grasp and took a swing with the knife, which Hanzo avoided with as much ease as before, and then knocked him out cold with the edge of his bow. He ran to McCree and shouted fervently, “Your arm!”

It was already being tucked under his duster, quickly followed by his gun. McCree made one more visual sweep around the room then started towards the door at a quick pace, grimacing. “No time. Let’s move.”

Hanzo couldn’t tell whether the expression was pained or simply disgusted at the situation. Either way, one thing was clear--McCree had been struck on account of Hanzo’s recklessness. He ground his teeth together and followed, keeping a sharp eye trained towards where McCree’s arm was hidden, wondering if he’d be able to distinguish a bloodstain from the natural pigment of the red fabric.  


The trek up and out of the factory was much quicker, though with an undertone of desperation. The closer they came to the exit the faster McCree went. Once they had left the doors he broke into a full on sprint and Hanzo followed his lead.

“Aw _shit_ ,” was the last thing Hanzo heard before he was being grabbed by McCree’s good arm and thrown with him behind one of the concrete walls that encased the property. There was a blinding light followed by the deafening scream of the building and its contents being blown apart.

The ringing in Hanzo’s ears remained long after the initial blast and he watched as McCree calmly brought a cigar to his lips, fumbling around in his pocket. He struck a match on the ground and lit it, taking in a deep drag and blowing it out the side of his mouth. “I call that a success.”

Hanzo strained to hear any further voices or footsteps on the dock. All he could hear was the rumbling of the underground factory still crumbling beneath the asphalt. He shot another sonar arrow into the ground just to be sure. Nothing.

However, he didn’t allow himself to celebrate. He wheeled around to McCree and seethed, “That was hardly a success. Show me your arm. We must dress the wound immediately.”

“I told you, no need.” McCree reached over to flip the fabric off of his arm, revealing cold metal. “Smarts a bit where the nerves’re connected, but nothin’ bad. Relax.”

Eyes widening, Hanzo took in the sight of steel, and wondered if such an outcome could be so convenient. He searched over the entire arm, even going so far as to grab it and turn it over, and when he saw that indeed, McCree was correct and there was no wound, he finally allowed himself the slightest relief.

He withdrew his hand and sighed. “Then it is done.”

He wanted to ask where this man had come from, who he worked for, but he could not ask such things from someone who had fought with him and saved his life. If he could, he’d let this man remain a comrade for as long as possible. Getting on his bad side appeared unwise anyway.

He stood, looking down on McCree. “If I know the Kingsley heir, it won’t be long before he and Talon catch wind. Do you have an escape route from here?”

“Nope.” The word was uttered with such confidence that Hanzo did not know how to react. McCree met his stare, puffing more smoke out of the side of his mouth. It was most certainly deliberate and something about that caused offense. “I don’t usually plan past this point. It shouldn’t be too hard to disappear.”

Cocking his head, Hanzo levelled him a disbelieving glare.

“Yes, it is terribly easy to die,” he growled in frustration. “Disappearing any other way, however, is a different story. You didn’t even prepare a car, or a truck?”

McCree shook his head, still unshakable as before. Hanzo took in a deep breath through his nose, looking up into the sky, searching for answers. Perhaps assassin wasn’t the right word for McCree. All assassins Hanzo had known would never be this foolish. What was his game? Could this possibly be a trap, like Hanzo had feared?

But then again, he owed this man his life.

“I came here on a motorboat. It only fits one person, but we’ll manage. Or else you’re fleeing by foot until you are inevitably shot down.”

He narrowed his eyes at McCree, and then without ceremony or even offering a hand, he took off for the edge of the docks with a quick gait, just slow enough to confirm that McCree was behind him. When they reached the edge, looking out over the ocean, Hanzo pointed to a white shoebox-sized spot in the distance being jostled by dark waves.

Now it was McCree’s turn to narrow his eyes, tipping his hat to lift the shade from them. “That’s awful far out, ain’t it?”

Hanzo gave a short huff and closed his eyes. “I didn’t bring an anchor. I was quite confident I wouldn’t come back.”

Though he was the one who made the foolish mistake, he had the nerve to glare at McCree like he was an inconvenient child that needed to be taken care of. Like he had caused this to happen. McCree simply stared back at him with an expression halfway between horror and a smile.

Hanzo carefully removed his bow and quiver from his back, gazing at them longingly. He turned and, with the utmost hesitation, handed them over to McCree. “Hold these for me.”

Eyebrows rising, McCree asked in an even thicker accent, “Seriously? You’re goin’ in the drink?”

“I will be taking a swim, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hanzo muttered, walking to the lip of the dock and looking down. It had been a while since he last practiced diving, but surely he could manage just fine.

“You not scared I’ll shoot you? I always wanted to practice with a bow,” McCree called out from behind, a grin in his voice.

Hanzo rolled his eyes, refusing to turn and face the cajoling. “I’d like to see you try and hit me with that, _gaijin_.” Then he jumped into a perfect dive, knifing into the water below. He began swimming before he even surfaced, drawing an arc of bubbles in the deep blue. Salt stung his eyes and clung to his lashes.

He quickly made it to the boat and climbed on, driving right up next to the dock. He wiped the sea from his forehead as best he could and looked up at McCree, who stared back with a completely blank expression.

“What?” Hanzo yelled up.

“That ain’t a motorboat. That there’s a jetski.”

Scowling, Hanzo responded, “It runs by motor. _Jump_.”

McCree did just that, landing with some difficulty on the edge and rocking it dangerously. He maneuvered his leg over the back of the seat, tucking his arm in between the two of them. The bow was tapped rather roughly against Hanzo’s arm until he took it. “Where we headed?”

Hanzo paused thoughtfully for a moment to take in just how bewildered, exhausted, and soaked he felt. He realized he had absolutely no direction from here. The thought circled through his empty chest over and over.

“You and I undoubtedly mean to go in very different directions,” Hanzo said. “I have time. Tell me where _you_ are headed.”

For a long while there was silence. Tired of waiting, Hanzo turned to look at him with a furrowed brow, finding McCree looking at him with incomprehension.

“Sometime today, please,” Hanzo prompted, his first entreaty of the day that included a polite word.

“I got business in Mexico. If you can get me to San Diego, I can get a truck across the border.” McCree fell quiet again for a moment while Hanzo revved the engine. “How much time you got, Mr. Shimada?”

Hanzo realized what was being proposed. He pushed back his forelock, plastering it against his head. He had all the time in the world, but McCree didn’t need to know that. So he answered sternly, “We’ll see when we get there.” He bristled as he felt the ghost of another laugh against his skin. Too tired to pursue the argument, he saved his strength for the trip ahead and drove off, engine rumbling against the churning waves.


	2. Chapter 2

“Now listen here, you owe me. How many times have I given debt collectors what for, and this is how you repay me? Stiffing me on a damn ride across the border?” 

A stressed, balding man with a beer belly and cybernetic leg was bent over McCree’s arm, fixing it with a set of mucked up, oily tools. He turned his head to spit nervously in the direction of the trash can and redoubled his hunched position, speaking in a gruff voice. “No can do. ‘Sides, I’m doing this for free, so, you’re welcome. Jackass.” 

“I could’ve fixed it myself and you damn well know it. You’re saving me time, not doing me a favor.” McCree had been down this road before, he knew what turns to take. It was only a matter of navigating, but his man seemed pretty on edge this time around. Old contact from back in the day, never gave him a consistent name. He’d taken to calling him Jerry because it was what he’d told him the first time they had met. The puzzled expression he usually received upon greeting him confirmed that it was not his real name. 

“Look, you know I’m not tryin’ to screw you over, kid.” He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years McCree’s elder, but he had never been corrected. “But it isn’t that easy to arrange a truck the night of, you know what I’m saying? Not to mention, I don’t like the look of your friend over there.” 

“Who, him?” McCree jerked his head over to where Hanzo was standing, ever vigilant by the door and still wet from his dip in the water, not to mention the wave they had hit towards the end that had soaked them both. McCree, on the other hand, had the common sense to take off his duster and let it dry in the wind as they drew up to their destination. “Don’t worry about him. He’s with me.” 

“That doesn’t mean shit and you know it. I don’t like him. Got a shifty look about him.” 

At that, the man in question glanced over. Whether it was coincidence or keen hearing, McCree couldn’t tell. He spoke pretty fluent English--as expected of a Shimada--but something told McCree the sniper didn’t apply his skill to much of anything beyond killing.

“I expect you and I are just as shifty as he is,” McCree argued. But just in case, he gestured to the Shimada with a hand. “Hey, Mr. Shimada, I’ll only be a minute. Why don’t you go dry yourself off? I saw someone on the way in who had a leaf-blower you could use.”

The guy obviously had no idea what a leaf-blower was. And by the paper-thin glare he was receiving, McCree could tell he didn’t enjoy being ordered around like a lackey. After another look at Jerry, Shimada shrugged as much as his tense shoulders would allow and stalked out into the streets, dripping water with each step.

“See what little’a San Diego you can,” he called out, then calmly looked back at his contact. “Whether you like him or not don’t matter. He’s my problem, not yours. All you need to worry about is that truck.”

The man paused in his tinkering to look it over, scratching the back of his balding head and heaving a sigh. “This isn’t like the time with the arms delivery, right?” 

Bingo. He had this in the bag. “Different stripe of cat, my friend.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Don’t matter. Just call up one of your contacts and I’ll be out of what’s left of your hair before you know it.” He didn’t seem to appreciate that one, but he slapped the panel on McCree’s arm shut and walked off, wiping oil onto his pants. Good man. 

McCree sat back and looked around the dirty, disorganized garage. They were nowhere safe, but shouldn’t have any trouble getting out of the country. The place they were heading was far more of a den of wolves than San Diego had ever been. The unrest was palpable by the border. They would have to be careful. 

Waiting around didn’t suit him and, already satisfied with what was more or less a secured transaction, he decided it would be best to follow after the Shimada. There was a lot to be learned from tracking someone down. 

-

The man hadn’t gotten far. He had favored back streets over the main road, a wise decision considering how he chose to dress. The Shimada looked nothing short of ridiculous, right out of some sort of movie, and while McCree could appreciate it he could not deny how suspicious it looked. He chewed on his cigar, refraining from the urge to spit to the side. 

The back roads had little to no food, and fewer people willing to sell to a soaked man carrying a bow. McCree had left his duster behind like a sensible human being. The Shimada looked nothing short of aimless as he wound through the streets, undeniably aware that he was being followed. He entered an alley and McCree decided it was as good a time as any to stroll up behind him. He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, offering a short, “Howdy.” 

In an instant an arrow was drawn on him, the man’s eyes small pinpricks of light in the dark. McCree offered a shrug of his shoulders. “Woah, now, I thought we were past this.” 

“Why are you following me?” It was a perfectly reasonable demand, one that received an equally reasonable answer. 

“Figured you’da gotten some supplies by now. You’re looking in the wrong place, by the by. Also, food would be good. Cheap, packaged, gas station is where you should be headed.” 

Though still swathed in a grimace almost as slimy as his soaked slacks, the Shimada eventually sheathed his arrow and pulled out something else--a small thin device with what looked like a button in the center. McCree’s finger twitched, thinking maybe it was an explosive, but then the Shimada tapped the button and up came a garbled, flickering holoscreen.

“I was looking for a signal.”

Could’ve fooled McCree. “Don’t you need to get up high for that, partner?”

“Not that kind of signal,” the man responded. He knelt down and held the device to a specific spot on the ground. The holoscreen unscrambled considerably, revealing a display completely blank except for the Shimada crest. “When it gets near a power source, this happens. I like to know where the power lines are, and where they go.”

So, he was scouting. Supposedly.

“Welp. I’m sure you’d catch wind of all sorts of crazy shit if you look long enough, but we should be fine where we are. Unless you’re bein’ followed. That a possibility, Mr. Shimada?” Because McCree knew next to nothing about him and what he _did_ know was limited to his lineage, which was not a reassuring factor. 

“There is always a possibility of being followed. That comes with the job,” came the equally unassuring answer. The sniper tucked away his device, frowning. “And I have seen the ‘gas stations.’ I thought perhaps I had found a _konbini_ in a wasteland but I was mistaken. A little boy referred me to a fruit vendor, who also sells nuts and grains. I’d suggest that instead.”

McCree wasn’t sure what a _konbini_ was, but if it was anything like it sounded, then it was certainly no levy in a desert. At least the Shimada finally seemed to have his head screwed on in the right direction--the sooner they found food, the more time they’d get to relax before old Jerry would be waiting with their truck, cussing up a storm.

“I’ve been by that fruit stand. Cute kid. We’re a ways from it by now, but we’re in the perfect spot to take a shortcut,” McCree suggested, tipping his hat, “if you’ll kindly follow me.”

Thankfully, his companion understood this was an order to follow beside and not behind. Never could be too careful with a yakuza, even a self-proclaimed rogue. Even a useful one. The Shimada seemed to be having similar doubts about McCree, suspiciously eyeing both him and the unfamiliar scenery as they walked.

“I never asked you, Mr. Shimada,” McCree drawled, “but what’re you expectin’ to get out of me and Mexico?”

He received a bewildered stare in return and man, McCree suddenly realized, this guy was way more eyebrow than eye. Even up close his pupils glinted, like old collectible silver dollars.

“You have all rights to doubt me, but I still have my honor. I expect nothing from you or Mexico.”

He left it at that, as if those two sentences answered everything. They didn’t, not quite, but they gave McCree a hunch.

“Now, don’t say that,” he joked, smirking around his cigar, “Once we hit Tijuana, you might change your mind. Ever had a piña colada Mexican style?”

The answer was, obviously, that the Shimada had never even had a regular piña colada, let alone heard of one. Seemed from the look on his face that those five syllables were still catching up to him.

He kept quiet the whole way through McCree’s shortcut of winding alleys until they popped back out onto the street, populated by nothing more than street urchins, passersby, and a lonely-looking gas station. To the Shimada’s credit, he held onto his patience all the way until he reached the door of the gas station, where he stood immovable as McCree took careful inventory of the protein bar selection.

“Fruit vendor,” the sniper confirmed in a deadpan tone.

McCree simply tossed a bar at him, strawberry flavored, and said, “It’s got some natural flavors--if you believe the package. And hey, at least it can fit in that keemono of yours.”

He tuned out immediately after that so he didn’t have to hear his companion correct him on whatever that flamboyant black tunic was actually called in Asia. At least the Shimada had moved out of the doorway and was now cautiously perusing a wall of junk in an aisle nearby. No doubt finding issue with each item.

“What is that?” he asked incredulously as soon as McCree picked up his next item.

“Surely you don’t got a problem with beef jerky.” McCree waved the small plastic pack at him and, seeing the disgusted look it earned him, grabbed two more packs for good measure. The health nut would thank him for it later, when they were sitting hungry in a dusty truck headed ass-deep into Mexico.

He loaded up his purchases on the counter and, spying a coffee machine against the wall, fetched himself a much obliged tall cup of joe. He dumped a liberal amount of creamer in and, with nothing around to stir, carefully swirled the cup in his hand. Coffee had remained a simple luxury, since the dawn of time it felt like, a communion with the industrialized world that any man born in a developed society could understand and partake in.

Except for, it seemed, the Shimada. “What are you doing?” he asked, looking more put out than ever.

McCree looked between him and the cup. “Well, sugar’ll ruin it, but a man’s gotta have his cream.”

“You’ll kill yourself before you reach the border,” was all the sniper could say before he stormed out of the gas station in a huff. McCree sighed, doctored his drink a little more, and then paid at the register. By the time he reached the door, he’d already drank one-third of the cup and, slinging the store bag over his shoulder, set off into the streets.

This time, he was actually headed for the fruit vendor, where the Shimada was sure to go. When he strolled up to the stand, not ten minutes later, he found him there, food already in his hands. McCree doubted the man had a dollar to his name, and the stall owner only spoke rapid Spanish, but apparently without a lick of English passing between the two of them they’d somehow managed to negotiate a trade, for which the Shimada received two apples, a rather large carrot, and a small bag of mixed nuts. Then the damn fool sat down on the ground, took an arrow out, and used the head to swiftly cut up the apples and the carrots.

As McCree came closer, he could see a small Mexican kid peering out from behind the stall owner. He watched the sniper’s handiwork with bright eyes, interjecting with shy bursts of Spanish. Seeing he was ignored, he grabbed a small orange and thrust it in front of the Shimada, who, though quite disgruntled, peeled and cut the orange into sections for him.

McCree sauntered up, one eye on the kid who was popping orange slices like pills, still entranced with this foreign art of fruit cutting. He bent down and, adjusting his hat, observed, “You make quick work, when you actually start workin’.” He had arrived just in time to see the apple slices, carrot pieces, and nuts just before they were wrapped up in two handkerchiefs. One was unceremoniously tossed to him. He recognized it was silk as soon as it hit his fingers. Genuine silk. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

The Shimada stood and stored his own bundle somewhere out of view. “You’ll thank me later.”

Well, McCree figured, they’d just about run out their relaxing time. Judging by all the rubbernecking passersby, they’d soon wear out their welcome too. Time to get moving.

“Sure thing. Now if you’re ready, we go back and wait for the truck.”

He didn’t think San Diego could handle another dose of Mr. Shimada.

-

The trunk was dingy and small, half-filled with stock that would by no means pass a border inspection. The back was covered by cloth and, while it was sure to keep the sun out during the day, also kept the heat trapped between Hanzo and the foul-smelling man who was finishing off the dregs of his coffee by tipping it completely upside down. 

He watched him wipe the last of it from his mouth before breaking the hour-long silence that had stayed steady between them. “Must you ruin your body with that filth in order to function?” 

McCree turned his head to him in an easy arc, like the trip until this point had been spent in pleasant conversation rather than borderline hostility. “I don’t rightly know what you mean. Nothing wrong with having a hankering. What’s got you put out, Mr. Shimada?” 

“I already told you,” Hanzo took a deep breath, steadying the irritation building like a tower in his chest. “I am no longer of the Shimada. Do not address me as such if it can be avoided.” 

Rustling came in the semi-dark and Hanzo’s eyes flew to the foreigner’s hands, one of which was digging around in a pouch. He pulled a cigar out, but before it could be lit, Hanzo spat at him, “Do not smoke that in here.” 

It was bad enough with the heat. Not to mention, the combination of what he had just consumed with the smoke would no doubt turn him ill. Disgusting. McCree sighed lightly, tapping it back into the pouch, and looked up to meet his eyes.

“Considering that’s the only name you gave me you’re putting me into a bit of a tight spot. So how about we cut the bullshit and you tell me what’s really on your mind.” A note of seriousness had seeped into his voice. McCree’s eyes remained trained on him as he asked, “Yer name’s Hanzo, ain’t it?” 

He pinned McCree with a look--piercing, but not a glare this time. He actually felt some of the tension leave his body. A lie of omission had been laid bare between them like a hand of cards, or a loaded gun. But he knew better than to trust an olive branch from an assassin.

“Who told you that? Your mechanic?” Hanzo spat, jerking his chin at McCree’s metal arm. He thought there was something shifty about that guy, and how McCree had told Hanzo to leave.

Apprehension rose in his chest, but there was no need to panic, he told himself. Not yet.

In the cramped bed of the truck, he finally had the opportunity to take a close, calculated look at his fellow traveller. The brown eyes under the shadowed hat, the dark tinge to the skin--he spoke English, had that thick drawl, and he knew California well, so Hanzo had pegged him for an American. But was he really? Who in America could know Hanzo’s name? Obviously McCree did not belong to Kingsley. But then again, judging by the firm features, the not-so-Aryan skin, he could’ve come from anywhere. Hanzo rushed through a list in his mind of all the organizations whose relations with the Shimada had gone up in flames, all the while grimacing through the oppressive heat and faint smell of jerky wafting up from the inside of his gi. He never should have accepted it.

“Nah, old friend of mine who had a run in with your group. Said the eldest son was a real nasty sonovabitch. Considerin’ you’re no longer part of the Shimada, but still tryin’ to off people who helped their collapse, I just put two and two together.” Something about it stank of a lie, thick and pungent. Hanzo’s nose wrinkled at it, upper lip curling. McCree tipped the empty coffee cup in his direction. “I don’t got a beef with your old clan, so relax.” 

Hanzo could hardly do that. The muscles in his body tensed, fingers itching to reach for his bow as McCree set his cup aside and began opening one of the handkerchiefs, popping fruit into his mouth. “That’s quite a code of honor you’ve got. Mexico ain’t exactly pretty right now, Dorado in particular.” 

“Dorado. Of course,” Hanzo huffed. Only place in Mexico worth sending an assassin to. “You are going to Dorado on a stomach full of coffee and beef.” This time he levelled McCree with a stony glare. “Do not eat the nuts and seeds. They’re the only healthy energy you’ll have access to later on.”

A sigh rumbled in his chest as he stared up into the ceiling of the truck. Dorado was no worse for him than any other place in the world right now. If only he knew who McCree’s “old friend” was, he’d be able to judge the gunslinger a little more accurately.

“Will you tell me who we are meeting in Dorado?”

McCree grunted a response as he halfheartedly flicked off a sunflower seed from his apple piece. “Sure. What you want to know?” 

“What are you willing to divulge?” 

“Someone I used to know at a former place of employment. Real stickler for rules, decent man. He isn’t expectin’ us so I’m not inclined to think there’ll be a warm welcome.” That was puzzling. Hanzo’s brow furrowed as McCree continued. “Received a message from another old friend recently askin’ for help and I haven’t determined what to do about it yet. Thought I’d catch up with him before I decide.” 

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. McCree had a lot of “old friends.” If this piecemeal network were anything to judge by, then perhaps he could be a mercenary. He supposed the name of this former place of employment would be impossible to extract for now.

“So, is there a risk this old friend might shoot us?” Hanzo guessed. “Or is there another enemy I should be wary of? Besides the whole of Dorado.”

“I’d maybe be worried about the shootin’ initially. But I’m sure he’ll let up once he knows who I am. Probably.” The clearly untrustworthy McCree lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Not sure who all’s in the area. I ain’t exactly plannin’ a reunion here, but I have an idea of what he’s been tryin’ to stop. As soon as Talon’s involved, that’s when we make ourselves scarce.” 

That woke up every cell in Hanzo’s body that had achieved any minute respite from restlessness. His eyes flew wide open and he stared long and hard at McCree, who just continued casually munching an apple slice.

“You could not even prepare yourself an escape plan from Kingsley,” Hanzo rumbled in disbelief, hands flying into the air, “ _Kingsley_ , a mere nodule connected to Talon. And now--Talon’s in Dorado, and you’re heading straight for them, to meet a man who _might not_ shoot you? Please tell me you have some semblance of a plan.”

“Now listen here. I’m not a betting man,” A thinly veiled lie. “But I just wagered my life against that entire group with only my own skill and you have to admit I made it pretty far. Thank you kindly for your help, but I always manage to scrape by somehow.” 

“Are you saying you will go up against Talon with _luck_?” The bite in Hanzo’s voice was enough to make McCree adjust his position with a gruff sound, leaning his torso forward as he faced him. 

“One time I was stuck on a solo mission. Out in the middle of nowhere, and I mean wilderness. Took out a few people, you know, standard mission for the man up top. Bad guys - that is to say, guys who were getting in my boss’ way. The place was a hellhole by the time I entered it, shootin’ in the dark for the most part. Should have been at least a five-man job, but I handled it just fine. Up ‘til the end.” 

Hanzo stared at him, the sharpness in his expression having twisted into confusion and moderate disgust. McCree took it as a sign to continue. “Staking out this building, deep in the ass end of nowhere. Had to hide out back so nobody would see me coming. I don’t know if it was a copperhead or some other nasty fucker, but somethin’ bit me real bad in the leg. Couldn’t move for a day, but the guy I needed to take out walked right by the window. Took him out from the damn ground and no one ever found me.” 

These had to be lies. Hanzo’s incredulity grew in his gut until he felt physically ill. McCree tipped his hat towards him. “That’s not just luck, my friend, that is divine intervention.”

“There is nothing _divine_ about being poisoned, or throwing yourself recklessly into an impossible situation,” Hanzo shouted, completely blown away by McCree’s spiel. “This is not a five-man job. This is not Kingsley. This is _Talon_. If you won’t think of yourself, at least think of the people who will have to clean up after the mess you make.”

Hanzo scrubbed his face with both hands. Great, so, he had a life debt to a psychopathic mercenary who relied on the grace of the gods to protect him against the world’s largest terrorist organization. Focus.

“Do you know the layout of the building we’re headed for? Or at least the general area?” he asked, begging for some common sense. “Is there anything you have that we could use?”

“Good god. You know, I think you and the man we’re going to meet are going to get along great. We improvised just fine against Kingsley and I’ve been in all sorts of scrapes before far worse than this. We ain’t _goin’ after_ Talon. I just think he might be gettin’ himself wrapped up in their business, that’s all. And like I said, if they show up,” McCree made crude jab over his shoulder with his thumb. “We’re out.” 

Nothing about this man was comforting, from his easygoing demeanor to his 20 ounce coffee. He fixed Hanzo with an amused look, but seriousness dropped into his voice like a stone. “World’s changing, Mr. Shimada. Splittin’ right down the middle again. And I’m trying to figure out whether or not to pick a side or keep fightin’ from the sidelines. Claiming loyalty didn’t work out too well for me last time ‘round.” 

Hanzo opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut. No use trying to talk sense into someone with a death wish. And he knew the importance of getting loyalties straight. He folded his arms and sat back with a sigh, nerves buzzing with the anxiousness of new conflict and bittersweet adrenaline.

“Let’s just hope for both our sakes that if it comes to getting out, there will be a way out.” He flicked a glance over again. “And I told you not to call me that. You have my name, you might as well use it.”

McCree gave a half-hearted shrug. “Duly noted.”

Well, that settled that. It wasn’t the first time Hanzo had been on an insanely risky mission with a bumbling idiot--he would just have to keep an eye out for the both of them. That’s what he’d come here to do anyway. There was just one thing about McCree’s story that didn’t add up, though.

“If you’re trying to avoid Talon, why did you attack Kingsley?” Hanzo asked, stern gaze tempered by curiosity. “They’re the newest burgeoning subdivision in the U.S. You even knew Dunholm by name.”

“Your clan ain’t the only ones screwed over by Kingsley. Caught wind of some activity, figured they were up to no good. Good intuition, I guess.” 

Hanzo waited for McCree to continue. When he received nothing, he persevered despite his own better judgment. 

“And what,” he asked. “Does _that_ mean?” 

“Now listen, Hanzo.” He was using his name, as asked, but something about it grated on his nerves like wire. The pronunciation brought back phantom memory of being taught English by the family tutor as a child, a string of syllables that had been impossible for him to say - ‘hand soap.’ 

“That means I’ve got a gun, a brain in my head, and a bag full of grudges that I know both parties ain’t gonna forget anytime soon. So if I know someone who had ill intent in the past is practicin’ said intent in the present, I’m doin’ what I can. Sounds a lot to me like you’re doin’ the same, sans gun. Ain’t that right?” 

Hanzo pursed his lips, hesitating. For all the cowboy’s blustering ignorance, he kept his own secrets just as well as any assassin. 

“I do what I must,” he huffed, closing his eyes.

In the brief millisecond Hanzo’s eyes were shut, McCree lifted the silk handkerchief, prepared to violently blow his nose. The handkerchief draped over his nose and chin, obscuring all but tufts of beard hair, making him look somewhat like the frightening cursed creatures Hanzo had heard of in fairy tales from his youth.

“Please don’t,” Hanzo groaned in exasperation. “Those handkerchiefs aren’t meant for that.”

He received a deadpan look. “What else are hankies meant for?”

“That is--” Hanzo sucked in a deep breath, fighting off mental exhaustion. Years of language instruction could never prepare him to argue with a buffoon in English. “That handkerchief is part of a set I received from a family member. They’re very expensive.”

McCree shrugged. “Your point being?”

“They’re very valuable. I don’t blow my nose in them, and neither should you.”

“A handkerchief ain’t valuable if it can’t catch snot,” McCree argued steadfastly, handkerchief still perilously close to his filthy nose.

“It’s valuable to _me_ ,” Hanzo growled, and for some reason, to his surprise, that settled the argument completely.

“For someone that flexible on the field, you’re awful high-maintenance,” the cowboy noted with a sigh. He tipped his hat as if in salute. Hanzo chose not to try to decode the backhanded compliment. 

Instead he watched as McCree pulled his hat off of his head - revealing matted, unkempt hair, and placed it directly on his face. The first thought Hanzo had was that it must smell horrible. The next was the simmering realization that McCree planned on going to sleep. “You will rest now? After consuming that?” 

“Beef ain’t ever done nobody any harm.” 

“I do not mean the beef.” Hanzo gestured with a sharp hand to the coffee cup that was slowly lolling towards a stack of crates in time with the truck’s movement. McCree peeked one eye out from under his hat and took his time following Hanzo’s gesture to the cup. 

“Don’t judge a man for how he drinks his Joe.” 

“What--?” This one pinged somewhere on Hanzo’s radar, some turn of phrase he might have once known but was now too angry to recall. There was no Joe, and no more patience to spare on this man. “Fine. Do as you will. The heart attack you suffer will serve.” 

“Serve as what? You rest up too. We got a long ride ahead of us.” Hanzo opened his mouth to snap something not fully formed on his tongue, but the hat was already in place, the flimsy looking hide creating an impenetrable wall between them. He struggled outside it for a moment then placed his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. There was no more point in engaging this man. In the time that they had been in each other’s company he had proven himself to be frivolous, a casual liar, and without the drive to take his actions with what Hanzo considered a necessary amount of seriousness. 

He was right about one thing, however - Hanzo was following him into an incredibly hostile area with little but luck and previous acquaintance on their side. Rest was necessary.


	3. Chapter 3

Night slowly bled into day, the only markers of time being the light peeking through the tarp and the steadily increasing broil. It was stifling and after the heat had penetrated the air it was impossible to sleep. Hanzo had stood briefly, but the truck was too rickety to do so for long. He distracted himself from the aching in his legs by eating from his kerchief, but the nuts settled heavily with the lukewarm water he drank earlier and only exacerbated his uneasiness. 

McCree, on the other hand, had slept peacefully for hours with his hat obscuring his face and his arms crossed over his chest. He had only woken to down copious amounts of water then immediately replaced the hat. Something about it infuriated Hanzo deeply - how could a man sleep so easily in such conditions, with such danger ahead of them - but as they passed into a new area it became evident that the hat was not only to block light. 

Dust had begun to seep into the back of the truck, settling by the edge of the tarp. As it slowly encroached, Hanzo felt it enter his lungs. Self-discipline kept him from coughing, though at one point he did cover his mouth to clear his throat harshly. McCree had not stirred. He only lifted his hat and pushed himself up when the driver yelled something back to them in Spanish. Hanzo waited as he shifted himself forward with a grunt, scrubbing his awful hair with an undoubtedly filthy hand. 

“Ain’t rightly sure what he said, but I’m guessin’ we’re coming up to a town. Should stretch our legs a bit if we get the chance. Water’s low.” 

A break sounded good. All the diligence and perseverance in the world couldn’t keep Hanzo’s legs from protesting. He’d been folded up for too long, and the rigor mortis of sleep exacerbated it. A beige cloud of grit blew into the truck bed, bypassing McCree completely to fly in Hanzo’s eyes. With great control, Hanzo wiped specks of dirt out of his eyelashes.

“How close are we to our destination?”

The cowboy rolled his eyes up, doing some careful calculations. “Pretty close, I reckon. We’ll know for sure when we figure out what town it is.”

Such a carefree lifestyle, Hanzo thought, mortified by the knowledge that they currently couldn’t place themselves on a map. A kernel of distrust remained firmly lodged in his chest.

Soon the truck rumbled to a stop, disengaging with a lurch. McCree hopped out of the truck, holding back the tarp for Hanzo who was close behind. After the driver confirmed he would wait for them--in a mix of broken English and Spanish--they set off for the town, following rickety, stout signposts hammered into the ground.

The silence between them was just as cumbersome as the dust slowly coating the inside of Hanzo’s lungs. It was heavy and unbroken and the worst part of it was that it didn’t seem to be affecting McCree in the slightest. He moved at a brisk yet easygoing stroll and anyone who saw them could have easily mistaken them for casual friends if it weren’t for Hanzo’s stiff discomfort. When McCree finally did speak it was as they were stepping foot into the town. 

“You finish off those lil’ seeds you packed?” 

Eyes darting over the skyline, searching the rooftops and streets, looking for anything to keep his mind preoccupied, Hanzo mumbled, “Of course not.” He paused for a moment, gaze flicking over. “I assume you have already laid waste to yours.”

“Man can’t survive offa rabbit food,” McCree confirmed. Hanzo did not dignify it with a response as they entered a dilapidated grocery. His pace slowed and he surveyed the shop while McCree headed down aisles, pulling jars and boxes into his arms at random. He circled back around, hauling a large pack of bottled water up onto his shoulder. Hanzo crossed his arms, throwing a suspicious look at the shopkeeper who was eyeing them with equal distrust. 

“Did the driver specify how long he would wait?” 

“Nah.” McCree dropped his purchases down onto a cracked counter with a series of thuds. “But we’ll be fine.” 

“And how can you be sure of that?” 

“Don’t worry about it. He’s probably reliable. And if he ain’t, well, we’ll figure it out. Mind grabbin’ us another water?” McCree treated uncountable nouns as singular objects and planned like a man taking a raft across the ocean. Hanzo turned without a word and went to grab the water. 

As he hefted the package under his arm and ambled towards the register, he chanced to see the cashier hunched over, whispering fervently into a device behind the desk. It was slightly obscured, but looked suspiciously like a transmitter. The cashier hissed a few words of garbled Spanish into the microphone and then looked up intently at McCree who had left to carefully peruse another aisle. It took a moment before he saw Hanzo, and when he did, the color fled from his face.

In a mere two seconds, Hanzo dropped the water and had both fists in the cashier’s shirt.

“Who were you calling?” he growled, unfazed when the cashier feigned incomprehension with a few phrases of frantic Spanish. He jerked his chin toward the device on the desk. “Show me that transmitter. Now.”

“Woah, now.” McCree was behind Hanzo in a moment. His presence did little to inspire the illusion of safety, but it did add a physical wall behind him. “What’s this about?” 

“He was contacting someone.” Hanzo’s fingers tightened in the fabric, eyes not moving from the man’s face. McCree moved to his side, picking up the transmitter and eyeing the man as Hanzo gave him a rough shake. “Speak!” 

“Come on, now.” There was a moment where Hanzo nearly blanched, anger rising in his throat. A quick glance away confirmed that it was not him who was being addressed, but the man. There was a harsh crunch as the transmitter was crushed in McCree’s robotic hand. He began to calmly pick up the items they had not yet paid for. “We don’t want no trouble. How about you back off and we make ourselves scarce?” 

It was impossible to tell if the man understood, but he jerked himself back sharply from Hanzo, raising his hands. The calm McCree exuded did not mask the hand that had moved to his holster, the other balancing water on his shoulder. The man bleated something in Spanish and McCree grunted in response, motioning to Hanzo with his head. 

In the brief moment McCree’s attention flickered away the man dropped to the floor, groping for something under the counter. Eyes blowing wide, Hanzo leapt onto the counter, knocked the cashier to the ground with his bow, and drew an arrow aimed directly between his eyes. The bowstring was so taut it quivered with the slightest breath.

“One more move,” he hissed coldly, “and they will not recognize your face when they come to collect your body.” 

The man’s eyes fixed on the arrow and cold fear overrode any desire to fight. McCree backed towards the door and it creaked as he opened it. “After you. When you feel like gettin’ down from that counter.” 

Any mocking that might have been in the words was ignored. Hanzo slowly backed off of the counter, arrow never straying from its mark until he had exited the shop. The man was left sitting on the floor, eyes wide. 

The moment they were out they began to move briskly, McCree’s long stride winding back to the edge of the town and towards their ride. Hanzo’s eyes were everywhere, checking for signs of them being followed, but the area was desolate. McCree spoke when the truck was finally in sight. “Guess we’re in rough territory. Good call back there.” 

Instead of responding, Hanzo ran for the truck, doing a preliminary search of the premises. He ducked under the tarp, saw no enemy waiting, and then hopped back out to check the driver’s side. The driver was still there, albeit quite startled to see someone right outside his window. With a gruff sigh he turned and shouted to McCree, “The truck is clear.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he heard the unmistakable shriek of a projectile, the violent crunch of bone and flesh. He turned back to see the lifeless head bang against the window, red streaking the glass in rivulets. In one swift motion he jerked open the door and pulled out the body, shouting, “McCree! We’ve got fire!”

McCree tossed the water into the truck bed, yelling back, “We’ve got motorcycles too. I see ‘em in the distance. How did they hit the sucker from all the way out there?”

Hanzo dragged the driver off behind a rock, hiding him as best as possible, and gave his soul a silent sending-off. By the time he dashed back to the truck, McCree had climbed into the driver’s seat and started up the engine. “Get on,” he said curtly, promptly throwing the vehicle into reverse. Hanzo was forced to jump on the side of the truck, clutching the roof desperately as bullets pierced the tarp that had once kept them trapped in heat. 

McCree’s driving was reckless, but fast. They had never reached such speeds before when they had been traveling in the back and Hanzo spared a moment to acknowledge that the truck was most likely not meant to go that quickly. He pulled himself up onto the roof, bracing himself as best he could and pulled an arrow. Bullets flew past him, one tearing a hole in his clothes. He loosed the arrow and exhaled sharply as it met its mark, sending one of the motorcycles swerving before it crashed. 

Another, then another--they zigzagged and clumped like flies. It was difficult, strenuous, and with every shift in direction McCree took Hanzo came closer to falling off. The number of their pursuers was not diminishing, more joining the fray from behind. No doubt after whatever was in the crates. He already knew there was no disconnecting the back, but who knew how long they would follow them. There was only so long they could keep this up. 

“McCree!” The syllables were difficult to bite out in the dry air, muffled by dust and wind. Hanzo gave the truck a sharp kick, ducking as a bullet sped by his face. McCree yelled something back at him that he could barely hear and Hanzo laid his body flat, shimmying along the side of the truck until he could open the door and swing himself inside. He landed on the seat with something short of grace. 

“What you doin’ back in here?” McCree yelled, swerving the truck roughly off of the road and parallel to train tracks. “We’re sittin’ ducks!” 

“In case you have not noticed, I am an _archer_!” The words were bellowed out over the wind and gunfire. McCree cursed and swerved over to the other side of the tracks. “I have a limited amount of arrows. You have _bullets_. I have seen them! Switch with me!” 

“Switch with ya--god dammit, this is why archery is defunct!” 

“How dare--!” Hanzo was cut off as McCree swerved the car, sending it spinning in circles. He grasped the door handle and clenched his teeth to keep from biting his tongue. Before they even came to a stop McCree was crawling over him, elbows and knees everywhere, and the two grappled, both trying to shove the other to the opposite side of the truck. Hanzo hit the gas, barely in the seat, and they sped forward just as a bullet passed through the hood. In both mirrors, he saw motorcycles swerve to take up positions on either side of the truck.

To his left, in the distance, he saw a gauntlet of craggy rock faces rising out of the dust. He veered towards them with all his might, so hard that the truck came up off the ground and rolled on only one side. The wall of the truck bed knocked into the attacker on that side, sending him and his motorcycle sprawling out over the ground. McCree, who had just rolled down the window to shoot, was tossed backward against Hanzo’s shoulder, and he clutched the dashboard with his metal arm so hard that it crunched under his fingers. Hanzo kept an ear out for more unsightly complaints, but to McCree’s credit, when the truck righted itself he leaned right out the window and took aim. He fired once and a spray of blood spiraled out, along with another motorcycle.

“We’ll lose them in the rocks,” Hanzo announced, swerving the truck back and forth to keep the multiplying number of cyclists from flanking them or shooting them down.

McCree called back between shots, “Sure, if’n you don’t lose the both of us there too.” He ducked back in as a number of bullets rushed past. “Hoo boy. Almost got my hat.”

Hanzo slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, pushing the truck as far as it would go, and blazed a trail of dust through the dry ground. As soon as the first sizeable rock appeared, he drove behind it. A spray of metal and gunpowder rebounded off the stone, sending bits of gravel across both their laps. McCree shielded himself with his hat, and his large frame managed to block most of the debris from reaching Hanzo.

Ahead of them, another motorcycle dove out of a clump of rocks, and McCree moved immediately to intercept with another burst of gunfire. The motorcycle danced just barely out of reach of McCree’s gun, and Hanzo realized the enemy was trying to bait McCree to lean further out the window. Rage boiled in his chest and he floored it again, squeezing out just a little more speed. He gained on the attacker, watched him fumble with both his gun and his vehicle, and ran straight into him. He pushed the cyclist with the front of the truck until he ran him off into another stone face. Then Hanzo jerked the steering wheel again, catching a breathless swear from his passenger.

He deftly weaved the massive truck through an increasing number of rock walls, all gradually rising in height, as if competing with one another. McCree did the best he could, and a fair number of enemies had been lost in the rocks, but a little over a dozen tenacious stragglers kept up the chase. And the rocks were getting denser, almost too much for the truck to handle.

Hanzo spied a narrow valley winding off a few hundred feet away. Just wide enough for them to slip through. Just winding enough to end the lives of a few careless cyclists. He swerved once more, stone just barely kissing the sides of the truck. He heard the whirr of McCree reloading in the interim, and then the cowboy was hanging out the window again, killing with alarming precision for the situation.

The path began to narrow, rock walls closing in from both sides. Hanzo kept his foot firmly on the accelerator, holding on until the last possible second, then reached over and jerked McCree back inside by his duster. Not a moment later, stone crushed both mirrors and shrill metal screams filled the truck. Behind them, the sound of a cyclist crashing, blocking the entrance to the valley--and then more, the crushing of metal, the buzzing of motorcycles struggling to find a way in. Hanzo steadfastly guided the truck through the valley, ignoring the screeching, the resistance of the steering wheel, and McCree’s death grip on the seat. Eventually they popped out the other side, and Hanzo dove once again for cover. McCree leaned out to check their rear, finding no one had followed them.

A few minutes of unperturbed peace, and silence except for the struggling engine, and finally McCree announced, “Well I guess that’s the last of them.”

They pulled over, stopped the truck and for a while remained still, listening for sounds of pursuers. Even after they realized the coast was clear, the two were stationary. Hanzo was well-accustomed to recovering from dangerous situations with ease, but this had the added thrill of recklessness. It was jarring and disapproval mounted upon itself until his jaw was clenched. He kicked the truck into gear again and began to drive as McCree let out a long breath, leaning back in the seat and rubbing at his shoulder. 

“Were you hit?” The words were out of Hanzo’s mouth before he could retract them, sharp and stern. He knew McCree had not been shot. His mind felt disarrayed. It was a repulsive state of being and he quickly began reorganizing as McCree grunted beside him. 

“Nah. Mighta thrown somethin’ out, but no big deal.” He pulled out a device from his duster, some sort of phone, and tisked loudly. “Shitty signal out here. Good news, though. Looks like the closest town is fifty miles west. We should--” 

“How is that good news?” Hanzo pulled the vehicle forward, accelerating gingerly this time. The truck might not last long after going through that pass. It drove like something was damaged in the engine. 

“I’m fairly familiar with the place. Had to get the hell outta dodge one time when doin’ dirt in Dorado. Stayed there for a while. Just keep headin’ that way and we should be able to get outta here easy enough.” 

Hanzo exhaled slowly through his nose and set a mental course. Adrenaline was giving way to paranoia and he kept a careful eye on the stretch of land around them. The silence between them stretched from minute to minute. The clock on the dash read forty-five minutes into the drive when McCree lifted his hat and started to slide it over his face. 

“ _Do not_.” 

McCree scoffed, but obliged. The desert stretched out in front of him just beyond Hanzo’s clenched hands on the wheel. McCree would join his vigilance and take this seriously. If peril would not inspire it, Hanzo would enforce it with threats.


	4. Chapter 4

“Wake _up_ ,” Hanzo nearly shouted, shaking McCree by the shoulder. In spite of the dust and the stress he’d still managed to fall asleep sitting up, with his mouth hanging wide open.

He blinked open his eyes, slurring, “What? What’d I miss?”

“The engine has stopped,” Hanzo grumbled, banging the flat of his palm on the steering wheel. “Get out. I have no expertise in this, you’ll have to assess the damage.”

They both hopped out and lifted the lid of the truck. Immediately a plume of something hazy, like smoke, burst out. Electricity crackled in what looked like a very important compartment of the machinery. They both stared uncomprehendingly, though McCree in particular pretended to examine the innards carefully.

“Maybe it’s not that bad,” he suggested. Hanzo almost allowed himself to feel some hope.

The front bumper fell to the ground with a crash. And the very important-looking compartment blew up in a small constellation of sparks. They exchanged a glance, Hanzo too exhausted to do more than look at him helplessly.

“Welp.” McCree tipped his hat towards the engine and turned abruptly to walk to the back of the truck. Hanzo stayed in place, holding onto the faintest glimmer that maybe there were some tools that could be used to fix it, but when the cowboy returned with their entire stock of water the thought dropped away. McCree began to shove bottles of water into his shirt. “Stock up.” 

Hanzo could do nothing but watch in silent astonishment. He scrubbed his face with one hand and breathed in deep, letting it out, and breathing in deep again. He reminded himself why he was there.

“That will restrict your movement,” he warned, but by now knew that McCree and care would probably never become acquaintances. In defeat, he chugged three fourths of a bottle, splashed the rest on his dry face, and then tucked another two bottles inside his gi, securing them beneath his obi. When he looked back, McCree was still stuffing, trying to wedge just one more bottle in the already-crammed space. “Please, McCree. Be _frugal_.”

“Yer gonna be the one asking me for water in a couple hours. Still a long way to town, ain’t it?” That was true. Hanzo had estimated about fifteen miles until they hit town. It was not an impossible distance, but in this heat it was likely they would melt before arriving. He was distracted by McCree pulling a package out of his shirt. “Hey, I still got some jerky. Thought I finished it off.” 

“Yes. I am sure it has been baking against your sweaty frame this entire time.” Hanzo cast one last look at him and began to walk, trusting him to follow. It was a good twenty paces away when he heard the other man’s footsteps stop. He sighed without turning. “What is the issue?” 

His answer was the sound of a gunshot. Hanzo whipped around, reaching for his bow, and was floored by the sight of McCree pointing his gun at the truck.

“ _What are you doing_?!” Hanzo bellowed as part of the truck caught fire. McCree rolled his shoulder. 

“Taking care of a loose end.” The second shot hit and the vehicle burst into flames, the explosion propelling debris in their direction. Hanzo lifted his hand to shield his face, yelling again the moment the air was clear.

“You _fool_! What in the world did you do that for?!” 

“Never leave a trail,” McCree told him, sliding his gun back into his holster as though he thought he was the star of some horrible Western film. 

“Now you have left a trail of destruction! You have sent a signal to anyone around, anyone who might have _followed_ us--” 

“Good, maybe it’ll get us a ride. You know as well as I do nobody followed us through that pass, and there ain’t no way they tracked us here. Keep walkin’.” 

McCree sauntered past, the packaging of the water bottles crinkling and crunching with each ridiculous step, making Hanzo seethe. He jogged to catch up and, with no other way to exact vengeance for his foolishness, grabbed a piece of jerky out of McCree’s hand just as it was on its way to his mouth. He angrily ripped off a meaty square with his teeth. Tasted just as awful as he thought it would, but at least it was better than murdering his charge.

“I see you’re coming around.” 

The heat in the air bore down, souring the taste of meat in his mouth further. 

-

The sun had crawled all the way to the other end of the sky when hope finally failed the Shimada. The bottles of water he had stashed did not last long and he had been loathe to ask for one of McCree’s, begrudgingly accepting when it was offered. They were still a good seven miles away, but the trek had worn on them and although they had found the road not a soul had passed them. 

“How much water do you have?” The question fell heavy from his mouth and he steeled himself for the response. 

“One. Lookin’ pretty grim, ain’t it?” 

“How can you joke at a time like this?” Hanzo couldn’t even muster up the energy to be angry. “We will not make it to the next town.” 

“Didn’t I tell you before? Things always turn out somehow. Don’t you worry yourself, now, I’ve got this.”

Ridiculous. He opened his mouth to tell him just that when McCree stepped out into the road, arms raised. Hanzo paused, looking in the direction he was facing. Nothing but haze. He listened closer and his stomach tightened as the sound of a car reached his ears. A speck in the distance. 

“See? Divine intervention,” McCree declared, far too smug. 

“Do not be proud of luck. It is very likely that they will be hostile.” 

“Then we shoot ‘em down.” 

As much as he hated to admit it, McCree was right. At this point they had no other choice besides optimism. Hanzo couldn’t help but feel it was misplaced, and as the vehicle neared them, the stone in his stomach sank deeper.

The vehicle, sporty and covered in scratches and mud, had its top down. And it was full of omnics, all carousing. Hanzo could barely believe his eyes. Omnics of varying shapes and sizes, two wearing nothing but jeans, the others khakis and tees--it was so surreal, watching them laugh and push each other in the car, a living illusion of humanity. Soon enough one of them spotted Hanzo and McCree, pointing, and then they all began to hoot and holler. Much to Hanzo’s chagrin, McCree stuck up his thumb, and the car slowed down next to them with an electric hum.

The driver leaned forward and called out to them in a deep, grumbling voice, “Little hot for you boys to be out walking, isn’t it?” Though the omnic’s eyes were nothing but four blue dots, Hanzo had the feeling his black robes were being eyed in particular. All he could think was, “It is a miracle they speak English.”

McCree, cool as ice, leaned his elbow on the passenger door and drawled in response, “Day ain’t no hotter than us, compadre.” He tipped his hat to the slim omnic in the passenger’s side, wearing a tank top and sweats. “Howdy. Don’t suppose y’all would be willing to give two fellas a ride into town? I’ll change yer oil for ya once we get there, free of charge.”

Two huge omnics in the back busted out laughing. The front seat passenger traded glances with the driver and then said, in a high-pitched, chipper voice, “Climb on in.”

McCree happily patted the door and then motioned to Hanzo before climbing into the backseat, in between the two big omnics. One of them moved over to let Hanzo squeeze in, wedged into a corner. The stuffy air and the close quarters made him anxious, but after they started moving, a thin breeze settled some of his nerves. He watched the landscape slowly begin to move, McCree cracking some joke in the background to raucous laughter. 

The sound of wind, synthetic voices, and McCree’s snark overwhelmed Hanzo’s ears and he allowed himself to focus on the faded fabric of the seat in front of him in some form of cheap meditation. They were fools to trust omnics. His luck hadn’t run out this time, but even McCree couldn’t have an endless supply. 

-

The one thing Hanzo could say for the town was that it was quaint. Another adjective he would freely use to describe it was “run-down.” The streets were lifeless except for a few people who scattered as soon as they got one look at the car approaching. Hanzo immediately had a bad feeling.

The other passengers continued chattering away until the beaten-up houses melted into further states of decay and then finally, as if popping out on the other side of a wormhole, fortified shacks rose out of the ground. Crawling around them were pockets of omnics, their laughter wafting across the car, and Hanzo saw more than one leaning on what looked like a bayonet. Eventually they rolled up on a much bigger fortification--a complex of houses, all connected, with a sign on the front that had been defaced with deep grooves and graffiti. He flashed a glance over to McCree, who also had the same horrible revelation. The cowboy leaned back, tipped his hat, and whistled lowly as the car came to a rolling stop.

This was clearly gang territory. They had gone too deep the moment they had entered the car, but now had no choice but to go forward. The only glimmer of hope was that they had not yet confiscated their weapons, though it was impossible to ignore the guns and various instruments they carried. McCree exited the car, immediately flanked by two omnics, one of which had not been on the drive with them. Hanzo’s gut twisted as he climbed out and received similar treatment. 

They were herded deeper into the compound, past rooms full of omnics. Hanzo noted McCree’s finger tapping lightly on his holster, but the rest of him remained cool and calm. Hanzo’s fingers twitched to match him and he turned his gaze resolutely ahead as they entered a room buzzing with artificial life. It was a wide space with uncomfortable seating. The atmosphere was oddly intimate, one omnic in the corner working on an open panel on its companion, doing something with its circuitry. Hanzo’s eyes were pulled sharply towards an important-looking omnic seated in the center of the room. 

The omnics kept talking amongst each other, inaudible and in a mixture of language, until McCree let out a sharp, loud laugh. Hanzo’s eyes widened and he turned slowly to look at him in warning, only to be baffled by the expression of relief on his face. 

“Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Fidel.” The omnic in the center turned its head to McCree, fixing him with a one-eyed gaze. The lense dilated and it stood with a tinny, bellowing laugh. The attention of the entire room rested on them. 

“Jesse McCree. You’re a long way from where you should be.” The words held ominous implication, but when the omnic stood the two approached and greeted each other with rough shoves to the shoulder. “Not hanging around the Deadlock? It’d be a shame to have to kill you.” 

“Don’t be that way, you son-of-a-bitch,” McCree drawled as the omnic gave his shoulder a rough shake. Hanzo’s mouth drew into a sharp line of disapproval, eyes dancing around the area. Most of the other omnics seemed as cautious as him, though others eyed McCree with familiarity and amusement. “You got anything to eat around here or are ya plannin’ on starvin’ us?” 

The gaze of the entire room turned to Hanzo in unison. He drew himself up, but as he called on the instinct to reach for an arrow, McCree waved a hand in his direction. “This here’s a dear friend of mine. We don’t mean to cause no trouble, just passin’ through to Dorado. We’d be much obliged if you’d let us stay.” 

Out of habit, Hanzo gave a terse bow of the head. One of the omnics from the car ride gave him a playful punch on the shoulder--one that almost rocked his whole body--and laughed at his formality. Luckily Hanzo held his reflexes back long enough to realize it was in jest. He looked at McCree with furrowed brows, only to find the other man grinning at him. He had half a mind to put an arrow through the cowboy’s neck after the mess he almost walked them into.

“We might have some scraps for you. Maybe your friend wants to eat.” Fidel motioned towards Hanzo. The gesture felt borderline crude. “If you don’t mind staying back, McCree, maybe we can discuss an arrangement?” 

“Sounds mighty fine. How’s that, Hanzo? Mind goin’ with them for a bit?” It was not a choice. The omnics flanking Hanzo began to herd him out, laughing lowly. McCree shot him a toothy grin as he opened his mouth to protest and it felt like a lid had been decisively shut on something. Hanzo drew himself up with dignity and allowed himself to be escorted out. 

They led him to a storeroom in the back of the compound where a rather large pile of dry foodstuffs sat collecting dust. Some canned goods were there too, though well past their expiration date. All the dry food was stale, but probably not enough to make anyone sick.

He squatted down and scooped up a six-pack of off-brand ramen noodles. Nearby he found some more nuts and seeds. He turned and asked an omnic hovering closely on his right side, “Why keep all of this? Do you have any human members?”

Five little blue eyes clustered together in the middle of the omnic’s face all rotated in opposite directions. “Nah, this is left from before we took over. Fidel said it was a waste to get rid of it. And he was right--saved you guys some trouble, huh?”

“Certainly,” Hanzo was willing to admit, “But a lot of this will get in your way. Most of the wet foods will have already perished.”

The other omnic gave a metallic sigh. “I’ve been telling you we should throw this crap away.”

Hanzo swiftly sorted out all the dry non-perishables from the rest of it, amassing a sizeable pile of dried fruits, assorted nuts, and noodles. After he had collected what they needed, he then sorted the perished foods into subsections with such obsession that both omnics gathered near him and watched in silent awe and confusion.

“These things will be molded over. They must be thrown away,” Hanzo said, gesturing to one pile. “Everything else will be rotten, but if your leader still wants to make use of it, you can compost it.”

“For what?” the five-eyed omnic asked.

“For the earth. It’s better than waste,” Hanzo pointed out, “and greenery raises morale.”

He gathered the necessary foods in his arms and, with the omnics’ blank-faced permission, left the storeroom.

-

By the time McCree found Hanzo, the agitation that had been plaguing him since they had arrived--since he had met McCree--had grown into an abominable force that, coupled with the heat, nearly crippled him. He had been sitting in a stuffy, mostly empty room for the better half of an hour and the sweat on the back of his neck did nothing to cool him. McCree sauntered in, somehow looking even sweatier. 

“Does it take so long to make preparations for our stay? Did you have debts that needed paying? Favors to be cashed in?” The words blurted out before Hanzo could consider holding them back, yet he did not regret them. McCree gave him a scoff of amusement. 

“I see you ain’t calmed down at all. Come on, let’s go out back. I hear there’re shower facilities.” 

Unlikely. Hanzo still stood, gathering the food into one meticulous pile before following McCree with a glower. He decided to reiterate, “What took you so long?”

“Negotiations. Don’t you mind.” 

They wound their way through the compound as though they had been there all day. Two wrong turns confirmed that McCree had no idea where he was going. Hanzo was ready to point it out when they finally reached the back entrance of the building. It was barren, not covered in grass or dirt but concrete. A few omnics loitered on makeshift decks to the side, lively and loud as they argued and laughed. McCree gave a pleased chuckle and knelt by the wall, slowly unwinding what looked like a huge rope. 

“Took ‘em a while to figure out what I meant, but turns out they rigged up this bad boy a while ago. Haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid.” Hanzo stared uncomprehendingly, eyebrows furrowing when McCree began to pull off his clothes, tossing them to the side with his hat. He knelt again, clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs and a wealth of body hair.

“ _What_ ,” Hanzo intoned, “are you doing?” 

“Ain’t you ever taken a shower before? Or maybe you like wallowing in your own filth. No judgment here, just makin’ a guess.” 

“You are one to talk!” The accusation set Hanzo’s blood boiling. It had been McCree who had been covered in dirt and grime for this entire trip and yet he had the absolute gall to imply that the filthy one was _him_. Hanzo felt something rise in his throat, a profound, violent urge. “You have been wallowing in filth this entire time!” 

“Woah, now, no reason to sound so accusatory. You’re the one who took a dip in the ocean, it ain’t very gentleman-like of you to call me out.” McCree turned a knob on the spigot and, after a moment of delay, disgusting brown water gushed out of the hose. The cowboy lifted it over his head and closed his eyes, letting it wash down over his brow and neck. Tiny specks of wet dirt began collecting in droplets in the valleys of his spine. “Hoo, that ain’t the cool shower I was hopin’ for.” 

“We are in the desert!” Hanzo’s feet were firmly in place, glued to the concrete. He did not take a step forward lest he risk getting splashed with the foul water, but could not bring himself to back away either, rooted in place. “Your foolishness knows no end!” 

“What are you talkin’ about? Get over here and clean off.” 

The innocuous suggestion was the last straw. Hanzo raised a hand and pointed rudely in his direction, raising his voice to a bellow. “You do not have even the slightest notion of a plan!” 

The omnics grew quiet then began to laugh, turning their attention towards them. The only sounds Hanzo could hear were the angry pounding in his chest and the slapping of the water on the pavement. McCree stared at him for a long moment then gave nothing but a bemused smile and a shrug. 

Hanzo’s temperament had withstood the muggy ride here, the frantic escape from death, and the exploding of the truck. This seemed puny in comparison. The worst grievances were the smallest, the simplest--even after Hanzo had worked hard to help him avoid peril, McCree somehow managed to make an ordeal out of life’s basic necessities. 

The words poured out of him, disjointed and disconnected, “Have you no concern for your life? Or even your _health_? I have followed you out here, done everything in my power to raise our odds, and you--”

“Your problem is you take life too seriously. Your honor is commendable and all, but you made the decision to come along. Can’t complain that the ride is bumpy.” Rage built in Hanzo’s chest so sharply he nearly saw red. “Why don’t you just calm the hell down?” 

McCree positioned his finger over the end of the hose, jamming his thumb in so that the water sprayed over the pavement in a sharp stream, hitting Hanzo in the face and thoroughly soaking him. He took it like an open-handed slap, unmoving and with some semblance of outward calm. After he wiped the water from his eyes with a hand, the only image in his vision not blurred by dirt was McCree’s undeterred smirk. It only faltered--just the slightest bit--when he saw Hanzo slowly remove the bow from his back and drop it with a clatter.

By the time McCree got his mouth open to say something else, Hanzo was on him. One swift flying leap and he tackled McCree to the ground. McCree’s defenses kicked in immediately, fellow warrior that he was, but the element of surprise gave Hanzo an extra half second to wrestle the hose from his hands and scramble behind him. Murky water showered the both of them as they kicked and scratched on the ground, sticking like mud between Hanzo’s chest and McCree’s back. He pulled the tube tight around McCree’s neck and held it there until the water’s flow was completely cut off. He was still getting air, but by his frantic grunts and the claw of his jagged nails at Hanzo’s arms and shoulders, he was suffering just the same.

The anger was overwhelming, washing over and over like a thick wave of magma. It had come over him so fast that now that he was here, scrabbling on the ground like a child, an equally sudden burst of clarity made him loosen his grip just enough that the hose spouted water again, striking him in the eye.

The added humiliation of the self-inflicted wound was not lost on McCree who, through loud coughing, had the gall to give a burst of a laugh. An elbow dug into Hanzo’s ribs, not sharply but grinding and weedling until the pain forced him back enough for McCree to get a grip on the hose. It was tossed to the side, sending another burst of dirty water over them as the two grappled. Even if Hanzo had wanted to save his dignity by ending the fight, he was not allowed. McCree’s elbow was in his face, hard and unforgiving. It knocked him back, but Hanzo retaliated with a kick to McCree’s gut that had him doubling over with a dull ‘oof.’ 

Each blow was repaid, the two trading shots like boys scrapping with each other over some minor dispute rather than two grown men. They were matched evenly enough, but when McCree finally gained the upper hand he was able to pin Hanzo with a rough shove of his shoulder. His arms were locked down against his sides and McCree held his hip down with a knee, clearly skilled in doing so. Hanzo imagined pinning people was par for the course in the life of a filthy cheat. 

The worst was that McCree seemed unfazed by any of this. He let out a huffy laugh, body not heaving hardly enough from the exertion. He scoffed down at him rather than asked, “Ya done?” 

The weight of McCree rested heavy on Hanzo’s hip, immovable but controlled, as if carefully subduing a rowdy child. Another shot of rage spiked through him, redoubling when he caught a whiff of McCree’s breath. He would not submit. He could not. Not when his best efforts were taken as a joke.

He gritted his teeth, and with a final rumbling growl, blindly knocked his forehead against McCree’s face.

The reaction was instantaneous. McCree jerked back, letting Hanzo go and falling back onto his ass. His hand came up to his face, head arching to the side in pain. “God _damn_!” 

The omnics burst into raucous laughter, far but imposing. McCree pulled his hand back from his mouth, lip split and dripping blood. He wiped at it with his palm and gave a hearty shake of his head, clearly dazed. He smeared more blood away with his wrist and looked up at Hanzo, quirking a brow. “The hell was that for?” 

Hanzo couldn’t find the words to respond. An ice-cold sensation crawled out over the skin of his stomach, blotting the rage from before. Breaking the mask was not as satisfying as he expected. The red crack spoke of some broken trust. It felt irrevocable. And even still, the fury persisted, fighting against the cold of realization.

He pulled himself to his feet. “I cannot be here any longer.” He turned, picked up his bow, and quickly jogged off. He had to get away, get somewhere that the swirling thoughts couldn’t chase him, where he didn’t have to see that _stupid fucking grin_ anymore--somewhere he could think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back with another chapter! This one's a longer one, so please enjoy it extra hard!! And thanks to everyone so far for all the support and words of encouragement. Some especially nice folks have commented on every chapter--you know who you are, and we love you. We really appreciate all the comments and feedback.

The desert’s night sky was filled with stars despite the light pollution from the buildings. It reinforced Hanzo’s assumption that the area was very small, barely more than the gang spot it had become. Perhaps that is what it had always been--nothing more than a sliver in the highway constructed for illicit dealings. He was ill-suited for the area, uncomfortable and out of place. 

The Shimada had occupied a corner on a dimly lit, poorly constructed deck off towards the edge of the compound. He sat with his bow in his arms, fingers moving along the instrument with practiced care as he adjusted the string over and over, tuning it so that it thrummed comfortingly against his thumb. 

The question circulating in his mind long after he calmed down was what he would do from here. Even if McCree was still open to him following and repaying his debt, Hanzo’s own pride put a stopper in whatever fluidity moved between them while they fought together. It had been a long time since he had felt the solidity of a competent combatant at his side and, though their partnership was a tentative and temporary one, it had struck some chord in him that he had not felt since his youth. 

But with that chord came another, an angry, sickly sting that had his fingers curling sharply against the edge of his bow until the skin under his nails ached. A competent companion was not worth the carefree, reckless, _foolish_ mistakes that McCree made, the oversights that clouded any beginnings of a plan. If he’d had one, some higher purpose in his actions, he had not confided it in Hanzo. Out of battle, the two of them were diametrically opposed. It made the narrow escapes from death feel like flukes rather than fluidity. 

Hanzo tensed as the sound of footsteps approached from the other side of the deck. He did not have to look up to know it was McCree, but he did not greet him. The thomp of thick soles stopped a few paces away. 

“Hey. You hungry?” 

Frustration volleyed back and forth with his common sense. It took all of his discipline to crane his head, just far enough to expose one gleaming eye. He spied McCree, in all his usual ragged debauchery, holding two steaming bowls in his hands. Hanzo couldn’t get his mouth open to say anything--didn’t trust himself to be civil--but he was willing to consider a peace offering if it freed him from his thoughts. He silently beckoned with a hand, grunting his assent.

McCree closed the distance and slid down to sit next to him, carefully handing him a bowl of noodles and a bent fork. The bowl was metal and extremely hot, burning his fingers. Hanzo supposed that was no trouble to McCree, who wore a glove on the hand that wasn’t mechanical and unfeeling. His eyes narrowed as he watched him lift noodles into the air on his fork and blow on them gingerly. 

“Feelin’ any better?”

He fought the urge to blow up all over again. He took a deep breath, let it out, and lifted his own noodles high, watching the steam with a frown. He’d never understand why some chose forks over chopsticks.

“Better is not the word I’d use,” he answered before he could stop himself. “But I am more in my right mind.”

McCree grunted in response, taking time to chew and swallow a load of noodles before speaking again. “Figured you mighta skipped town by now.” 

Hanzo could not tell whether or not he was amused to see him still there. His jaw set and he stared down his noodles before carefully bringing them to his mouth. The taste was sub-par and offensive, much like the man beside him. 

“You were right.” 

The words struck him and Hanzo paused in chewing to look over at McCree who was busy blowing on a new wad of cheap ramen. If he knew Hanzo was looking, he gave no indication. 

Hanzo analyzed him quizzically, eyes catching on the split in his lip, reflecting silvery red and purple in the low light.

“About what?” he asked, in genuine confusion. Surely he didn’t mean about McCree’s filth. But he couldn’t possibly mean what he thought he meant either.

“About going into risky territory without a plan. It was dumb luck that got us picked up and if it weren’t for that, we’d be baking carcasses in the desert right now.” McCree followed that admission with a long slurp of broth. “When we go to Dorado, we go prepped and ready. No more runnin’ around like chickens with our heads cut off.” 

Hanzo fell silent, partly out of shock. The apology stole the fire right out from under him and left him cold, a few blazing embers stubbornly struggling to stay lit. He ate another mouthful of noodles before saying quietly, “Your luck is indeed surprisingly strong, but unreliable. How in the world have you survived until now? Do you always live like this?”

“More or less. Every time I’ve had a gun pointed at my head or almost went to prison, some sorta otherworldy force came in to bail me out.” An alarming notion. “Got Dorado squared away, though. Talked to Fidel and arranged us a way in. Should be pretty solid and he’ll help us out with supplies.” 

Hanzo levelled him with a stern gaze. McCree still kept his eyes on his bowl, eating noisily, for once joining Hanzo in his supreme awkwardness.

“I am glad for that much,” Hanzo sighed, feeling some relief. “I hope in the future you will be more careful. It would be such a waste for your life to end out here in the middle of the desert. Or a place like the shipyard.”

“You brought a jet ski,” McCree reminded him in a slow drawl, “And you didn’t even anchor it. You don’t get to say shit to me about plannin’ for Kingsley.”

Well, to McCree’s credit, there was no way Hanzo could argue with that one.

They sat in silence for a little while longer, eating the ramen away along with the tension. Hanzo figured he should ask what the plan was--double-checking was obviously a must when dealing with McCree--but he felt hollowed out. Even more so, he felt like something else needed to be said.

Eventually, when nothing was left in their bowls but broth, Hanzo managed to blurt out, “I will not take back what I said before. You have been extremely foolish, and now we see eye to eye on that. But …”

His mouth set in a thin line. “I also acted foolishly. I let my anger get the better of me.” When he turned to look at McCree again, he was startled to find him finally at attention. He admitted painfully, “I am sorry that I hit you.”

McCree blinked at him and Hanzo found himself completely unable to identify the look he was being given. It lasted no longer than a few seconds, but it seemed to draw out for an hour. Half of McCree’s mouth went up in a lazy smile and he shrugged his shoulders. The gesture was dismissive, but not disrespectful. 

“Water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned. Ain’t the first time I’ve been knocked in the head, and for less.” Hanzo believed that. Still, the easy acceptance of his apology was not expected. He was not sure how to take it. 

Then again, what kind of assassin would McCree be if he couldn’t handle a split lip? Suddenly the whole situation shrunk down small enough to fit in the notch of an arrowhead and Hanzo didn’t know whether to feel relieved or stupid. He was about to open his mouth to complain, to assert that maybe McCree really did deserve to be busted up over what he’d done, until he reviewed the peculiar incident with the truck in his mind. Something about it stuck with him. He asked without any segue, “Why did you shoot the truck? That seemed reckless even for you.”

“We were on that truck because my contact arranged it for us. And we were the reason they came after us. Dunno what that cargo was, but the least I could do was make sure no nasty business got back to my man. Seemed the best way to destroy the evidence.” McCree tipped his bowl back and finished off the undoubtedly still scalding dregs of his soup. Wiping his mouth, he gave Hanzo an amused raise of his eyebrows. “Didja think I was doin’ it for theatrics?” 

Hanzo scowled. “I did not know what to think. I feel that neither of us did much useful thinking while we were crossing the desert.”

“Maybe so,” McCree snorted.

After drinking the rest of his own broth, Hanzo reached into his gi and pulled out the packet of beef jerky that had been burning a hole in his clothes ever since they first bought it. It was still disgustingly warm from where it had been pressed against his skin. He had, unfortunately, become accustomed to the smell. He was still hungry though, and meat was meat.

He peeled back the plastic and took out a few strips, handing the rest over to McCree as a gesture of reconciliation.

“I reckon you should save some of that,” McCree protested.

Hanzo deadpanned, “I have been steeping in it for almost two days. It will be eaten now or never.”

“Fair enough.” McCree pulled a strip out and took a bite, chewing it as he stood and grabbed the bowls. As he headed over to the door he threw over his shoulder, “Might wanna consider washing up. You ain’t smellin’ too pretty.” 

Hanzo rolled his eyes up and asked whatever nebulous gods were watching to give him the strength not to kill the person he’d just made peace with. But McCree was right--he smelled awful. He felt awful. And the water was awful too, but a muddy shower was better than jerky stink. If the enemy didn’t smell McCree coming a mile away, they sure would smell Hanzo.

He left and wandered back through the compound until he found the so-called shower facilities again. Thankfully the nighttime had chased all the omnics away, leaving Hanzo with no one but himself and the sad, deflated-looking snake of a hose lying in a pile on the ground. He turned the spigot and found the water ambiguously less brown. With a sigh, he removed his shoes, and then his gi, folding it on the ground. Next, the cumbersome obi, and the long yellow tie in his hair. He hadn’t seen his reflection in many days, but from the matted texture of his beard and hair, he assumed he looked as much a fool as he felt.

He knelt and ran the hose over his head, lukewarm water running down the back of his neck. It felt good with the chilly nip of desert nights creeping in. He worked out knots through a steady stream of water, but didn’t dare put the hose directly on his face. Instead he cleaned his beard with wet fingers, and then did a cursory wash of his arms and chest.

The tattoo on his left arm caught his eye, glistening in the moonlight under a thin veil of liquid. He thumbed some of the dragon’s scales, caught up in rapidly-encroaching memories of home. He had dealt with Kingsley. After his business with McCree was over, there was nothing left he could do to repay the Shimada. The finality of it, and what lay beyond, were almost crushing. He welcomed the feeling--not with peace, but the promise of it, in the end.

After a while longer spent staring at the tattoo, he quickly finished up and turned off the hose. Cold air had swept in while he was distracted. He grabbed his gi and used it to towel off his torso before putting his obi back on and grabbing his bow and hair tie.

The search for McCree in this building, where each room was virtually identical to the next, would prove to be a chore. 

-

“Gettin’ cold, ain’t it?” 

The words that greeted Hanzo when at last he entered the correct room were not comforting. The two ragged, dirty blankets that had been provided would do little to keep them warm in the desert night. Hanzo almost regretted using his gi to dry off, but the alternative was worse. 

“It is the desert. What is to be expected.” He lowered himself, crossing his legs. McCree seemed intent on a small device, scrolling through it. Hanzo noticed with some disdain that it was a severely outdated phone. 

“Better rest up. Getting up at dawn to make the rest of the trip,” McCree suggested without looking up. 

Too exhausted to even sigh, Hanzo spread the gi out to dry and set his bow and obi on the ground beside it. He snatched up one of the blankets and laid down on his side without so much as a goodnight. He did, however, remind McCree in a firm voice, “There are still dried fruits and nuts left for the journey. If you eat the rest of our supply in the morning I will kill you.”

McCree’s laugh was the only response he received. Hanzo listened to him tapping away at his phone until he fell into a lower consciousness. The cold made it difficult to sleep, but a light rest of his eyes was better than nothing.

When McCree stood to turn off the light it brought Hanzo back into awareness and he felt a stab of annoyance. He waited for it to fade as McCree settled down on the floor, rustling around with the blanket. When his large back thumped into his, Hanzo’s eyes shot open. He searched the room for some external cue that required this physical contact, but found none.

“What?” he asked, to no answer. “What is it?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” McCree’s grumble implied exhaustion and his back remained firm. He shifted his weight on his arm, trying to get comfortable. 

Hanzo paused, trying to get his stream of consciousness back under control. He managed to keep his voice more or less calm as he grunted, “Do you make a habit of sleeping against strangers?” But he knew with the proximity, the tension in his frame gave him away.

“If it’s freezin’, yeah.” The blankets were paltry and Hanzo was regretting his choice of towel greatly, but he hadn’t even considered sharing warmth. The fact that McCree thought so little of it was appalling. “Like you said, it’s the desert. You got a problem with it we can both be cold, but speak now or forever hold yer damn peace.” 

For once, he was making a lot of sense. And that was scary. Almost as scary as the fact that only now, despite a hailstorm of bullets and desert dust and fighting like dogs over a hose, had the concept of McCree gained object permanence. Hanzo realized in a rush how far he was from home, how far from his original destination. He was only supposed to go to Kingsley. That was the last stop. But honor had landed him in the dead of night back to back with a man he didn’t even know. Distrust fought with the unraveling of over thirty years of life. The warmth from behind seeped in like blood.

He held his peace. Even after McCree started fucking snoring.

-

The next morning Hanzo was, of course, the first one awake. He barely slept, but the few toe-dips into dreams had invigorated him enough to put aside all the confliction of the past few days. While McCree slumbered through the wee hours of the morning, Hanzo threw on his now-dry gi, tied back his hair, and took off to gather their provisions. Hunched over in the main room of the compound, he loaded up his silk handkerchief with more dried fruits and nuts, set aside some for McCree, and started boiling more of that cheap ramen. Omnic eyes kept close observation on him the whole time.

Hanzo had just poured the ramen into two bowls by the time McCree sauntered in, a giant yawn on the tip of his tongue. They wordlessly sat down together at a small table, where Hanzo had put McCree’s dry rations in a neat pile. The cowboy’s hand automatically drifted towards it until Hanzo smacked it away, reiterating the threat from the previous night.

“Wrap as much as you can to take with you. If there’s anything left, only then should you eat the rest,” Hanzo snapped, but his voice had lost most of its bite. Between the previous night and the nervous brightness of morning, he felt a light, buzzing emptiness. The feeling persisted in spite of McCree’s paltry attempt at stowing some food in the handkerchief, before sucking up the rest of his rations like a vacuum. By now such actions were expected.

They quickly finished eating, and as soon as they did, Fidel came into the room with two other omnics at his side.

“Why don’t you stay longer? We still have much to catch up on, McCree. If it’s work you’re looking for, I don’t mind hiring humans.” 

McCree stood, slipping a glove onto his human hand. It was almost time for them to be heading out and the way Fidel blocked the door with his frame was imposing and, Hanzo thought, ominous. McCree just laughed. 

“Yeah, used to keep a couple around, didn’t you. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. Couldn’t really keep up with your standards, could they?” 

“If a few hours in the desert is enough to dry a meat bag out then they are not worthy of joining.” 

McCree adjusted his hat, staring off into the middle distance. “Left ‘em out there for a few days, didn’t ya?” 

“What is a few days stacked against personal dedication?” 

“Heard the crows got ‘em.” Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. He was not sure what was being proposed, but he did not like the direction of this conversation. His shoulders tensed a bit when the omnic let out a grinding laugh. 

“Vultures. But if your mind is made up, the truck is leaving now.” 

“There’s no need to be sore about it.” McCree gathered their things, swinging a dirty bag over his shoulder. Rats had chewed through part of it and though Hanzo was loathe to accept omnic charity, he could not deny that it was still useful. He took a few steps forward, following McCree’s lead but eyeing the omnics with distrust. 

He stayed on high alert while Fidel moved to let them pass. McCree got a few steps past him and then quickly, in a flash of silver, the omnic’s hand flew out and smacked his ass. It happened so quickly Hanzo could barely be sure he saw it, but he was sure--

The giant, single eye watched Hanzo as he passed. He thought for a moment that he heard a laugh, or saw the lens dilate in a sneer. When they got far enough out of earshot, Hanzo asked quietly, “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” McCree’s tone made him feel like he knew exactly what he was asking about, but the amusement irked him. 

He opened his mouth to ask again, then thought better of it. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Instead he paused a moment and asked, “We have enough provisions for a while. What is the plan from here on out?”

“Head to Dorado, find my guy. It’s a good thing Fidel’s lackeys came across us when they did. Goldmine of information, really - turns out there’s been all sorts of shit goin’ down. Gangs being targeted and I mean big ones. Been a while since anyone could stand up to Los Muertos.” Hanzo made a sound of disapproval in his throat that McCree ignored. “I have a feeling it’s my guy. Targeting weapon’s shipments, shouldn’t be too hard to track if we know where to look, which I do.” 

Hanzo squinted into the sunlight and looked out over the horizon line. Back into the unforgiving desert. “Hopefully he will be alive when we get there. How far are we?” He did not want to be dying of thirst in the seething desert with McCree again.

McCree shrugged as they approached a rusting, loudly puttering truck. He waved to Fidel who was watching them from the entrance of the building, loudly arguing with another omnic. After receiving a dismissive gesture of the hand in return, McCree turned back to the truck.

“What, you think I got a map of the desert? We’ll get there when we get there.” It was not an even slightly reassuring response, but McCree ignored the look Hanzo shot at him, crawling up into the back of the truck. When he met Hanzo’s disapproving stare the two looked at each other in one-sided silent tension until McCree gave the bed a condescending come hither slap in invitation. “You just gonna stand there?”

Searching McCree’s face with suspicion, Hanzo fancied that he at least finally saw the light of some common sense. Only a little, but he supposed he had no choice. The slightly-swelled, purple crack in the cowboy’s lip stood firmly between Hanzo and the ever-present desire to throttle him.

With a great sigh, he heaved himself into the truck. “You are unbearable.”

“Now, that’s just rude.” Hanzo noted as McCree shifted his ass on the uncomfortable metal bed that he did not deny the accusation. Instead, he leaned back and pulled a cigar out from somewhere in the musty depths of his duster. 

“Must you?” 

McCree had the gall to look at Hanzo like _he_ was the one being unreasonable. “What? There ain’t no roof. The smoke won’t get trapped in, ain’t no reason to fuss.” 

Hanzo could not deny this. He crossed his arms and stared resolutely at the compound as Fidel yelled something at them neither could make out over the sound of the truck. One of the more enthusiastic omnics threw a bottle at the truck, which shattered against it. 

“It’s like they’re christening a boat,” McCree chuckled, not at all offput by the assault nor confused as to why they had empty alcohol bottles.

Even if the journey lasted twenty minutes, Hanzo thought, it would not end soon enough. 

-

In some ways Dorado was more of a wasteland than the desert. The stretch they covered on the way in was barren and dusty, hardly anything noteworthy at all, but when they had reached the outskirts of the city Hanzo could hardly believe his eyes. 

It was a well known fact that the unrest had caused violence to break out in Dorado, but the leveled buildings and crumbling rubble they passed made even McCree give a low whistle. Unmarred architecture rose a mile in, rippling out from the destruction in a swath of beautiful buildings. Clearly some sort of bomb had gone off. Neither had commented on it, only growing tenser as the truck ventured into the beginnings of civilization. 

The two were dropped off outside an abandoned building, the omnic driver expressing vehement refusal at the smallest suggestion they get any closer. Neither could blame him and so they continued on foot, past empty homes and shops until they began to run into pedestrians who were even more dodgy than those near Fidel’s base.

A room was difficult to secure, but after a couple failed attempts they were referred to a crumbling inn run by an uneasy looking omnic. At first it seemed as though it might reach for the strange looking gun strapped to its leg, but McCree’s disposition charmed it enough that it only grumbled a little as it threw him the key. He tipped his hat graciously, but did not allow his back to turn completely until they were down the hall. 

“These parts’re worse than I thought,” he finally commented in a low voice, chewing lightly on his cigar. “Hard to say if it’s humans, omnics, or what. Los Muertos, I’d reckon.” 

Nodding, Hanzo supplemented, “Only a unified organization can so efficiently put fear into an entire population. This place seems to run much like a yakuza-controlled area, though the damage done here speaks of much more undignified practices.”

Even though Hanzo could appreciate a skillful takeover, he felt that territory should be managed like a business, not a warzone. Dorado was both exactly what he expected and somehow worse. He felt a brief pang of something akin to remorse.

When they reached their room, Hanzo entered first, dutifully checking each nook and cranny of the walls and floors for any sign of interference. Of course, there were no cameras or listening devices anywhere, but he knew from habit that it never hurt to be sure. There was a small window on the far wall that he crept up beside, covertly peering outside to survey the street.

“A curtain would be nice,” he mused, figuring they could use some article of clothing for that later.

For some reason that pulled a gruff laugh from McCree, who was in the process of dumping their belongings unceremoniously on the bed. “No shit. Guess beggars can’t be choosers.” 

He sat down on the mattress, pulling out his outdated device to forcefully tap at the screen. He said nothing for a while and Hanzo crossed his arms, leaning against the wall more for a feeling of having his back covered than relaxation. McCree finally cracked another of his half smiles. “Bingo. The intel that omnic bastard gave me was good after all. Good man. Should be an arms shipment going out of Dorado tonight. With any luck, we’ll find my friend there.” 

Hanzo gave an absent-minded grunt of approval. At least they had some direction now. He stared out the window for a few more moments, redundantly scanning the area, before turning back to McCree who was still scrolling through his phone. He gave him a once-over, sizing up the whole of him before dissecting him in pieces. Other than the mattress, McCree was the only fixture in the entire room. Hanzo guessed they would be sleeping together again.

“Where will it be? If possible, I’d like to scout the area …” Hanzo noted, but mental exhaustion was already taking hold. So much had happened in the past few days, and he was not accustomed to having to look out for another person. Not like this, and not for this long.

McCree disputed, “If you do that, there’s a chance they’ll discover us. Let’s just hole up and relax a little bit. Ain’t no sense in raisin’ anyone’s hackles just yet.”

Hanzo said nothing. He carefully sat down, back still against the wall, and pinned his eyes on a crack in the center of the floor. Using the silence as an aid, he focused his breathing, tracing the crack with his gaze over and over until it gradually blurred and the edges of his body began to fizzle away. His thoughts retreated and left warm haze in their wake, and he saw, heard, felt, and thought of nothing. He was alone with himself, and while it was not altogether comforting, it did take him out of his uncertainty for a little while.

-

When Hanzo finally slid back to reality the sun was already setting, no longer visible through the window. McCree was standing in front of him, knees at eye level, and loosely waving his metallic hand a foot from his face. 

“Hey Hanzo, you in there?” 

Immediately he snapped to attention, judging the time by the low light in the room. He stood, legs restless and sore. “Is it time?” He eyed the bag of provisions, feeling the gradual onset of hunger. He spent so much energy arguing back and forth with himself about whether he should eat that he missed McCree’s response.

“Y’know,” McCree started rather than repeating himself, “if you’re hungry you should eat on the way. No tellin’ how long we’re gonna have to camp out ‘til he shows up. If he does.” 

Hanzo’s attention was drawn to McCree’s hands as they busily refastened his duster. He must have taken it off at some point, though Hanzo had no recollection of him doing so. McCree met his eyes out of the corner of his own, something curious and concerningly shrewd about them. Instead of bringing up whatever was on his mind, he simply gestured at the door and prompted, “Let’s go.” 

For once, Hanzo decided to take his advice. He took a packet of dried fruit out of the bag, ate a small handful, and grabbed another before jogging after McCree. The cowboy raised an eyebrow. “No jerky?”

A thoroughly unimpressed, half-lidded stare was his only answer.

“How do I identify him? What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know him when you see him,” the cowboy responded helpfully. 

“And what exactly does that mean?” His brief rest had not settled his nerves enough to soften him to McCree’s foolery. 

“That means we’re going to be sittin’ around watching a gang transfer possibly explosive cargo, and he’s gonna be the only one who don’t fit in.” McCree cracked his neck as they entered the back alleyway, taking a turn and leading them down a sketchy road. They ducked into another, shorter alley near an even sketchier road that was a little wider than the one they had just travelled. Hanzo assumed that was where the shipment would pass through.

In the alleyway, a large empty dumpster sat open, providing the perfect cover. Of course, McCree sat down behind it and motioned Hanzo over, oblivious to the other man’s total disgust. Sure, there was no trash inside the dumpster, but it still smelled awful, and frothed with rust, unidentifiable stains, and flies. Hanzo crouched down beside McCree, and between the trash smell and McCree’s body odor he thought he might die from sickness before anyone had a chance to shoot him. He kept fervent watch to distract himself.

After only a little over an hour--to their great surprise--a large truck pulled up and men began piling out, one barking out loud orders. Immediately the transfer of large crates began. Their skin glowed with neon markings in the waning light. They were unmistakably Los Muertos members. Hanzo squinted his eyes, waiting for any sign of the man McCree promised would stand out. McCree shifted up onto his legs, peeking out over the dumpster, and Hanzo yanked him down by his duster, hissing, “You will get us caught.”

“Can’t really look ‘round the side. You ain’t giving me a whole lot of room.”

Hanzo opened his mouth to pursue the argument when they heard the rumbling of a second truck on the street they had come from and the clamor of footsteps. They exchanged a wide-eyed glance, one of Hanzo’s fingers still clenched in red fabric.

McCree shot to his feet as loud, aggressive laughter filled the end of the street. He shifted his body up against the dumpster and Hanzo realized with slow dawning horror that he was getting inside. His jaw dropped when McCree leaned towards him, brow furrowed in an undeservedly confused expression. “What’re you waiting for?” 

Hanzo could only gape. He glanced towards the oncoming truck, then around for any other route of escape. It was as he was doing so that McCree’s hand fisted in his gi and dragged him upwards, over the edge, and into the dumpster. He landed on his back with a thud and a very undignified noise. Before he could think any better of it, he backhanded McCree across his face, just hard enough to knock his hat off.

“The hell was _that_ for?” McCree whispered, affronted.

“Battle reflex,” Hanzo lied with a deadpan expression. But now that he was on his back, he could see multiple convenient points of purchase on the wall beside the dumpster. The roof wasn’t that far away, and it would be a good place to set up for sniping. He climbed out of the dumpster and up the wall, kicking down the lid on his way up. McCree gave a cut-off protest, but Hanzo was well out of earshot before he had time to finish.

He scuttled up to the roof and backed away from the edge. Crouching down, he drew his bow and began to prepare an arrow. As he slotted it against his bow, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over and on top of a building a block away, a man with white hair and a mask stood with a gun cocked. Just like McCree promised, Hanzo recognized him immediately.

Problem was, he didn’t recognize Hanzo. The man lifted his gun to shoot and Hanzo breathed “God _damn_ it,” hopping back off the roof just as a bullet whizzed past. He pulled both feet up as he descended in a straight line, prepared to cushion his fall and silently retrieve McCree. As he neared the lid of the dumpster, however, it sprang open and McCree slowly emerged with his hat off-kilter. There was nothing Hanzo could do to stop himself. He crashed down on top of McCree, both of them crumpling back into the dumpster, and the lid slammed back down on top of them. 

The laughter from the end of the alley broke off and turned to sharp yelling, thugs undoubtedly moving to identify whatever had made the cacophony. The two men twisted haphazardly within the putrid darkness, both of McCree’s elbows somehow digging into Hanzo’s side. Even in this utterly doomed scenario, McCree had the gall to yap at him, “Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how hard it was to open this thing from the inside?” 

Hanzo lay on his back, staring up into the darkened void as he slowly digested his fate. McCree managed an unsteady crouch and gave Hanzo a swift kick. “Hope you’re ready to fight the second we get outta here, or else we’re spendin’ eternity in the world’s dankest coffin. Ya jackass.” 

Overcome by anger, Hanzo shouted, “You should not have been climbing out at all! You are the one who chose to hide here in the first place!” Out of revenge, he violently threw open the lid, immediately drawing an arrow on a very startled-looking gang member. Before he could yell and give away their position, Hanzo shot him down and turned to scowl at McCree, “For future reference, you _push_ it open. That’s how you get out.”

He jumped out and drew another arrow, covering McCree while he followed suit. Another gang member jogged through the entrance to the alley and Hanzo loosed the arrow into his head, sending him skidding across the ground.

“I loosened it up for you,” McCree argued, drawing his gun and shooting off a few violently loud rounds into two other men who had followed the first, effectively giving away their position. The shouting became louder as both trucks pulled up outside either entrance to the alley, trapping them. McCree’s back hit Hanzo’s, sending vibrations against him as he fired again and laughed loudly. 

“This is no laughing matter,” Hanzo snapped, quickly picking off a few thugs who were frantically digging in the crates to draw out weapons. “And your _friend_ is on the roof.” 

“Well shoot, why didn’t you say so before? I wouldn’t’ve gotten out of the dumpster.” 

“You are lucky I don’t put you back in there,” Hanzo growled in warning.

Effortlessly, he defended his side of the alley, concentrating all his energy on matching McCree’s slightest movements so that as little of the both of them were exposed. They both took a huge step to the left, narrowly avoiding a shot from McCree’s side that sped past them and caught in the chest of the enemy nearest Hanzo. Using a scatter arrow, Hanzo cleared out a small pocket of men encroaching from the far side of the truck, providing an opportunity to press out and escape.

“I have an opening. Move with me, quickly,” he ordered.

The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as McCree made a noise somewhere between frustration and a laugh. After he was sure McCree would comply, he began pushing towards the mouth of the alleyway with long, controlled strides, taking care to stay pressed together. Whenever McCree strafed, so did he, and vice versa, and Hanzo remembered all over again that when they weren’t talking about inane things, or arguing, they worked together pretty well. He carefully cut a path out of the alley, towards one of the trucks, now bereft of anything except corpses and crates.

He grabbed McCree’s arm and yanked him behind the wall, running up the street. “Do not stop running,” he said, and then turned and fired another scatter arrow at the rumbling truck. The shrapnel rebounded, crashing into the vehicle and its cargo several times over, and a fire broke out on the undercarriage. Just as Los Muertos men made it out of the alley and were preparing to shoot, the truck exploded, sending them flying in all directions.

McCree scoffed, “Oh, so it’s okay if you do it?”

“Shut up,” Hanzo shot back intelligently, taking stock of his quiver. He was getting low--he would have to be wise with the rest of his ammunition. A bullet screamed by his head just as McCree threw a hand on the back of his neck and forced him to duck. 

The two skidded to a halt as yet another truck swerved into view several meters ahead and an impossibly beefy man in the back pulled some kind of giant, pulse-munitions blaster out of a crate that took both hands to lift. Plasma glowed bright purple in the chamber, charging up with a blinding light. McCree gave an uninspiring “Oh man,” beside him and Hanzo was preparing to fire into the mouth of the blaster when they heard a deafening sound from behind. 

Three rockets fired above them, curling in dizzying arcs toward the man. His expression fell in the brief moment before they blasted into him, forcing him into the air and through the window of a nearby storefront. The impact thoroughly decimated the glass, the window frame, and knocked the front door off its hinges. McCree, back still pressed firmly to Hanzo’s, whistled at something the sniper couldn’t see. Hanzo craned his head to look at the alley’s entrance, where McCree’s friend was stepping out of the shadows. 

He could not discern anything except that the man was huge. A red glow matched the description from the wanted poster and confirmed McCree’s suspicions. He aimed carefully, catching a thug in the head who was aiming at his contact. The masked man swung his gun, pistol-whipping another two enemies in the face before shooting the truck driver who had hastily scrambled out in an attempt to flee. McCree took aim again and shot over the man’s shoulder to down another member who snuck up from behind in the interim.

The few surviving Los Muertos men quickly abandoned their chase, salvaging what equipment they could amid relentless fire. They called out their retreat and scuttled away like spiders, disappearing into other winding alleys. Hanzo remained stiff against McCree, their shoulder blades connected, and kept his arrow drawn taut until every threat was gone. McCree’s contact had felled the last stragglers and was now approaching with heavy foot falls, holding his ridiculously large gun in one hand. From what his visor and the dull street light illuminated, he was a hulking mass headed straight for them. 

“Howdy,” McCree greeted, voice easy and light as though they hadn’t just slaughtered a dozen men. The man breathed out gruffly, almost a growl. He eyed McCree through the visor, a slight tilt the only indication when his gaze turned to Hanzo. He hoisted the gun onto his shoulder and grunted at them. 

“Follow me.” 

With that, the man started down the street in a long stride, leading them away from the wreckage of the fight. McCree broke contact with Hanzo’s back, a suddenly noticeable absence, and passed him up. As he moved, he shot Hanzo a look he couldn’t decipher. The two walked in silence behind the man, blindly following down a complex of winding alleyways. 

They were a good five minutes out from the site of confrontation when the man wheeled around and grabbed McCree by the front of his duster. He threw him against a wall with a force that left him dangling a few inches above the ground. McCree grunted sharply. 

“Woah, there.” He raised his hands and eyebrows, presenting himself as non-threateningly as possible. The man looked him over, the glow of the visor illuminating McCree’s face as he leaned in. He let out a low, growling breath, clearly displeased. 

Automatically, Hanzo angled an arrow at the side of the man’s head. A somewhat frantic wave from McCree prompted him to reluctantly lower his bow, though he kept the projectile slotted and prepared. The visor swung to observe Hanzo, who met the red stare with as neutral an expression as he could manage, given that his companion was currently immobilized.

“No need to get hostile,” It was unclear who McCree was addressing. “We’re just here for a chat. Don’t want any trouble.” 

The man slowly turned his head back to face McCree and gave him another long stare. Whatever he saw in his face seemed to confirm something and he dropped McCree with a grunt, taking a step back. McCree brushed his duster off with all the casual grace of someone who hadn’t just been rolling around in a dumpster. 

“Why are you here?” The man’s voice was low and gravelly--a quality that felt older than his white hair or the lines on his forehead. 

“Can’t I just have a chat with an old friend?” 

The man breathed out, something disapproving about the sound of it. “No.” 

“That so.” McCree rested his hands on his belt with a bemused expression. “Tides are turnin’ again. Thought I’d come see what your opinion on this whole mess was, if it still concerns you.” 

The man turned his head towards Hanzo, silently indicating him. McCree shook his head. 

“Friend of mine, no need to worry.” The extended stare Hanzo received spoke levels on how little the man believed that statement. “I got a place if you’ve got time.” 

Hanzo met the gaze of the visor until it finally abated. The man swung his gun onto his shoulder again, colliding with muscle and leather. A nod was the only indication he gave and McCree scoffed, turning his back to walk off and lead the way. He lightly bumped his elbow against Hanzo as he walked past, sending yet another unknown and indecipherable message. They were still alive though, and Hanzo supposed he should be grateful for that. He retired his bow and engaged in a brief staring match with the masked man, who stayed rooted to the spot.

“You going to move?” he asked expectantly, in a tone that brooked no compromise. Hanzo wasn’t confident he wouldn’t be shot in the back, however, not much could be done. He followed McCree, speeding up so he could be within grabbing distance if anything went wrong. The clomp of heavy boots echoed in his ears the whole way back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Back with another chapter of the good stuff. Things get a little heavy this time. Hope you're enjoying, as always, and we've got plenty more planned. We tend to update irregularly, just because some parts take longer to write than others, so if you want to keep up-to-date, slap down a bookmark or hit subscribe for notifications. Thanks so much for the support so far!! We're always here for feedback and questions

The omnic innkeeper was less than pleased to see his latest guests traipse in with a man who made no attempt to hide his pulse rifle. Even McCree, who had worked with Morrison on more than one occasion and was well acquainted with his weapon of choice, had to agree with the omnic on this one. It was gargantuan and had to be as heavy as the atmosphere around them felt while they made their way single file down the narrow hall to their room. 

McCree couldn’t really blame him for violent greeting, nor the stiff silence during their walk, and he wasn’t about to demand otherwise. Morrison had gone to great lengths to conceal that he had survived the explosion at the Swiss headquarters and had until now kept his identity protected. Whether or not the other former members recognized “Soldier 76” for who he was, McCree couldn’t say for sure, but even when he’d seen the grave he hadn’t believed it. Morrison wouldn’t die that easily, had been the immediate thought. He held the same suspicion for the other half of the problem. Their conflict had been the catalyst in destroying what had once been a place he’d called home. 

“Home” as in a place he’d lived briefly, yet longer than any other he could remember, and where he’d taken orders from said other half. He’d done more than a few dubious things there he wasn’t quite proud of. But he had no intention of talking about what happened. Morrison would probably leave if he tried. That was all in the past, and McCree was sure they could agree despite whether or not that was true for either of them. 

“Hey Hanzo.” McCree’s voice caused the man to tense up as always. He felt a slow roll of amusement as he turned to face his self-imposed companion. “Mind keepin’ watch for us outside the door? Shouldn’t take too long.” 

There was that distrust again, painting the Shimada’s face with a grimace. “I assume you think this doesn’t concern me.”

“It really doesn’t,” McCree agreed, and a staredown ensued. He expected Hanzo to rear back and bite out some remark like he always did, but instead his face softened in contemplation.

The sniper’s glance flicked over to Morrison, who let up on his vigilance long enough to scan the bare room with a scoff. The sharp eyes flickered back to McCree, and he jerked his chin at their guest questioningly. Asking if it was okay to leave. McCree shrugged and nodded, doing his best to reassure. As usual, his attempts didn’t take too well. But Hanzo conceded, “Keep your ears open,” and with a last suspicious glare at Morrison turned and left the room.

The door thumped dully behind him instead of clicking shut--there was no lock, and absolutely no privacy. Even with it shut the sound of Hanzo pacing was audible. McCree hooked his thumbs into his belt and went to lean against the wall, looking up at Morrison. 

“You gonna speak to me face to face?” The only response was Morrison’s breathing as he stared at him. McCree could imagine his expression. “That’s alright. Turns out you ain’t the only one fond of masks lately.” 

Whether or not he picked up on McCree’s meaning, Morrison’s frame remained at the same tension it had since he’d walked out of the alley. It silently snapped at McCree not to waste his time. 

“Look, I won’t give you the runaround. I have a feelin’ we’re goin’ after the same man and you know as well as I do he ain’t gonna be too happy to see either of us.” He had Morrison’s attention now. McCree’s mouth pulled down into a frown, brow knitting as he matched his seriousness. “Someone’s gotta do it. Seems fittin’ it’d be one of us.” 

He watched as Morrison drew himself up, gun swinging down to his side. He breathed out slowly, the filtration of the mask adding an almost static sound to the noise. “So,” he started slowly, “What are you proposing?” 

“Nothin’ that ain’t in either of our best interests. Talon’s the one collecting those shipments, ain’t they,” McCree guessed, more of a statement than a question. “If Dorado is already this much of a shithole it’s only goin’ to take a few carefully placed incidents to throw this whole place into chaos, right? And that’ll just be the beginning.” 

“McCree.” The name was growled out, not with disapproval but with impatience. McCree raised his hands in a shrug then crossed them over his chest. 

“If he’s here I’m goin’ after him. I ain’t asking for a blood pact, but if you’re doing the same, the fuck is the point of us not coordinatin’ for one big shindig?” 

Morrison drew himself up for a moment then let out an exhausted sigh, shoulders deflating just the slightest. Even with his face hidden he looked like a man who needed a solid night’s rest, or maybe a week’s worth. Grinding himself into dust out here wasn’t going to do either of them any favors and it certainly wasn’t going to take _him_ out. Morrison rolled his shoulders, nodding over at the door. 

“Not sure how I feel about your ‘friend.’” 

Good. This was turning in McCree’s favor. He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Him? Never you mind about Mr. Shimada.” 

Morrison went still for a moment then turned his head towards McCree. There it was. That moment that tipped the scales in McCree’s favor, that further easing of tension in his shoulders, the sound of leather sliding as he lifted his gun again and offered a swift nod. 

Nevermind this Shimada was nothing like their previous contact. The fact that Morrison seemed to trust his judgment was both beneficial and left McCree feeling a little bad. Not enough to reword any of it, though. 

“Great. We’ll be hangin’ around these parts for a while until that omnic gets suspicious. What you got I can contact you with?” Morrison’s disapproval was back, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gray block. McCree stared at it uncomprehendingly as he lifted it close to the mask, then closer, and began to press at it with a gloved thumb. 

The soft beeping made McCree’s expression twist in confusion. “What’s that, now?” 

“Phone,” Morrison grunted, not looking up at him.

“You sure? It looks like a dog chewed up one of them old cassette tapes.” Morrison made another noise in his throat, a warning for McCree to shut up. It only piqued his curiosity and he pushed off of the wall, stepping closer to sneak a look. Morrison turned his head sharply to him before continuing to type on keys far too small for his fingers. McCree whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned.” 

“McCree.” 

“Naw, don’t mind me. Gotta ask where you dug up that relic, though.” 

“It’s a Nokia.” Morrison’s patience was clearly draining away but McCree felt an urge build up, the same one he had felt when he’d tried to blow his nose in the Shimada’s handkerchief and the same urge that had consistently gotten him in hot water while in Blackwatch. 

“Why don’t you use a real phone?” he pressed lightly.

“This is a real-- _dammit_.” Morrison began to mutter and jammed a button repeatedly, no doubt erasing something he’d fucked up. McCree laughed, only blanching a little when the phone was thrust at him. He caught it with his metallic arm and began calmly typing in his number. 

“Must be pretty hard to type on the run if you gotta press a button three times to get one damn letter.” 

He handed over the phone, which was tucked away so quickly and discreetly McCree could hardly be sure it existed in the first place. The two men gave each other a once over, both exhibiting very different reactions to what they saw but settling into some kind of resolution. Morrison gave him a nod which he returned, moving out of the way to let him through to the door. 

“One more thing,” McCree started suddenly, causing Morrison to stop mid step. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, waiting as McCree rolled the words around in his mouth, trying to figure out how best to ask. He decided on direct. “You talked to anyone other than me?” 

Morrison’s forehead wrinkled and he lifted his gun closer, a possibly subconscious action. “Ana.” 

“Ah.” McCree nodded as if that answered nothing at all, but stowed the information away. “No intention of lettin’ anyone else know? I hear they’re tryin’ to bring people back together.” 

That was apparently not the right thing to say. The wrinkles in Morrison’s forehead smoothed out into what McCree could only imagine was a practiced, cold, and distanced expression. “Overwatch is dead.” 

McCree nodded slowly, gauging him as well he could. He could feel the waves of misplaced anger radiating from the man in front of him, and knew better than Morrison himself what was underneath it. He was well acquainted with those who chose to mask pain with anger, and he counted himself among those sinners. 

“And the dead had better stay dead, right?” The furrow returned at the words and McCree offered half a smile. Morrison turned and, after a moment of silence, left the room. Well, that was that. 

Now to deal with the fallout. 

-

Hanzo stood stiffly outside the door, watching with wide eyes and an impossibly furrowed brow as McCree’s friend exited the room. The two shared a look for only a moment before he was trudging down the hall, heavy footsteps gradually fading. Hanzo’s vision snapped back to the open doorway. McCree was inside, pulling his hat off to restlessly scrub a hand through his hair. He didn’t look at Hanzo, nor acknowledge him, but he seemed to be waiting to be addressed. 

There were a thousand questions roiling around in Hanzo’s brain, the words Talon and Overwatch beating against the inside of his skin to the pace of his rapidly-increasing heartbeat. Considering that, he surprised even himself when the first question out of his mouth was, “Where is he going? He has told you nothing.”

McCree started, “Well, he’s--” and then Hanzo was thundering into the room.

“You _told_ me this was not a fight with Talon. You said we would not take them on.”

“We’re only taking on one guy, not the whole kit n’ caboodle,” McCree argued in his slow drawl, completely retaining his composure.

“ _Semantics_ ,” Hanzo spat, eyes filled with fury. “You know that’s not how this works. Rescuing a friend is one thing, but hunting an agent means incurring the wrath of the entire organization. What are you _thinking_? We are three specks of dirt in the face of Talon.”

“I ain’t expectin’ ya to follow through,” McCree’s accent had somehow thickened, perhaps some guilty response to Hanzo’s righteous anger. “As far as I’m concerned you never owed me a debt, so consider it repaid. All I asked ya for was your time and now we’ve made it down where I wanted to go. So feel free to do what you want, but I ain’t budgin’. This is somethin’ I gotta do.” 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, clinically examining each twitch of McCree’s face. He was angled away slightly so that their eyes never quite met, but almost. Was this a test? No, that didn’t seem likely, but rage still boiled up at the suggestion.

“My debt is not for you to decide. If I send you to die now--when you are facing certain death--” He let out a growl and lifted his hands as if to scrub his face, but the minute his hand came up he punched McCree in the face again. The man stumbled back, palm pressed to his cheek, and this time Hanzo felt no remorse. What Talon would do to him would surely be far worse.

He grabbed McCree’s shoulders in a crushing grip, making sure that for once the cowboy was looking at him. Seeing him. “Whether you like it or not, I am part of this too. Why didn’t you tell me? About Talon, about--” Bile rose up in his throat. “You’re part of Overwatch.”

McCree rubbed at his cheek, opening his mouth to pop his jaw as he seemed to contemplate a response. He sighed, a heavy sound, and nodded. “You’re right, I didn’t tell you. So I guess I deserved that one. But I ain’t part of Overwatch, not anymore. And I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ back. I don’t have any secret agenda affiliated with them other than the guy I’m goin’ after.” 

“I am not a fool. You said you were trying to pin down your loyalties.” He gave him a shrewd glare. “You’re considering returning to them. And even if you weren’t, when you _were_ part of Overwatch, that would be when …”

They both stood in heavy silence for a few moments. Hanzo felt the pressure of the entire earth weighing down his shoulders and feet. He should have known. He was an idiot to think that the connection they shared in battle meant anything. And now, now Hanzo was here, too far gone to retreat, and that man Hanzo had wanted to bury and forget forever was tied to McCree by a thin, red, tempting string.

“I have,” Hanzo breathed out, fire on the tip of his tongue, “ _so_ many questions. And you _will_ answer them this time.”

McCree had stopped rubbing his jaw to thread his fingers through his vile, unkempt hair. He pushed it back, taking in a slow breath. He held it for a moment before deflating completely and dropping his arm. 

“Alright.” The victory was not a sweet one. “But we’re getting a drink first.” 

McCree tugged himself from Hanzo’s grip, not leaving any room for argument, and replaced his hat. He pushed past him, not waiting for him to follow as he headed into the hallway. 

Hanzo stood stock still for a moment, staring at the bed that housed their belongings before turning and following. The heated numbness did not dissipate, nor did the feeling of betrayal, but now at least he would get some answers--or so he hoped. 

-

“Whiskey,” McCree grunted out, leaning heavily on the bar. He was cast a very dubious look by the exhausted, middle aged bartender, but received an annoyed nod when he lifted up two fingers and confirmed, “Dos.” 

Hanzo sat stock still beside him, stiff and uncomfortable. He did not plan on drinking anything that the cowboy did, nor anything that involved his money, but when the drink was slid in front of him he automatically took it and brought it to his lips for a sip. The disgusting taste brought him out of the strange mental state he’d entered during the walk from their inn. The veil between his anger and the man beside him drew thin as he watched McCree throw his entire glass back. 

Breaking the awkward silence, McCree motioned at Hanzo’s glass and informed him, “You’re supposed to do it all at once. Elsewise it’s unbearable.”

Feeling an even more acute pang of anger at the suggestion that the taste was too strong for him, Hanzo conceded and downed his drink in much the same fashion. Fire burned in his throat, swallowing up the bitter words that meant to come pouring out. He had just barely pushed the glass away when McCree ordered two more. The second shot went down even worse than the first, but Hanzo found it was easier than facing the man beside him. Otherwise he might fly into a rage or fall on the laurels of cold emptiness.

It was after his third shot--McCree idly swirling amber in his own glass--that Hanzo’s chest finally numbed out and a question surged forth with muted violence. “Start by telling me who the hell your ‘friend’ is. And I want a name.” His dark eyes flashed, challenging McCree to refuse him in some small way like always.

“Don’t rightly know if he’s gonna cut me down for tellin’ you that.” And the excuses began. Hanzo opened his mouth to snap at him, but McCree beat him to the chase. “Name’s Jack Morrison. Used to work for someone who worked for him. Decent man, if you believe it. Was, anyway.” 

The alcohol finally hit, making Hanzo’s head spin all the more with the admission. His eyes blew wide open. “Jack Morrison? He was dead. The whole world saw him put into a grave.”

“Well he’s still here and breathin’, clear as daylight,” McCree shrugged, noisily swirling the ice in his drink. “So no, he wasn’t dead.”

“Shimada operatives confirmed it. They saw the body,” Hanzo insisted, mouth still agape. “They made sure.”

“He ain’t dead,” McCree maintained firmly. “That’s him, alright. Knew it right when he pushed me against the wall. Funny how people can change a lot over time, while still changin’ so little.”

Staring dumbfounded into his whiskey, Hanzo compulsively threw it back again and slammed the glass down on the table. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. “Jack Morrison, in the flesh. Somehow I had imagined someone more …” He chewed over the thought. “Why try to contact him after all this time? How did you even know he was alive?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on his activities ever since wanted posters started coming out. Not as careful as he could be about that, maybe thinks death is an airtight alibi, which it ain’t.” McCree slowly turned his glass around clockwise, fiddling with it. “After Kingsley I figured I’d best get a move on. Decide what I was going to do. And gettin’ into contact with him sounded like the best option.” 

To do what, though, exactly? And then Hanzo remembered, just as the frustrated bartender slid a fourth whiskey over, seeming somewhat doubtful that the two customers would pay. Staring at the wood grain, underneath the shadow of the glass, Hanzo supplied, “Because you’re going after the same person.” He looked to McCree for confirmation.

“That’s right. Talon affiliated, but I figure the two of us have more of a shot than going in separate and blind.” This seriousness, though it was what Hanzo had wanted from the beginning, was not becoming on McCree. It seemed to age him by ten years. “He’s a nasty son of a bitch and I don’t know how easy he’ll be to kill, but someone needs to take him out.” 

“And it’s worth throwing yourself on Talon’s spear to kill him,” Hanzo huffed, disbelieving. He reached for the drink again automatically, but thought better of it. The liquid heat had begun seeping into his brain, making it easier to be more invasive than he had any right to be. “What is the connection? Who is _he_ , and what has he done to earn our lives?”

“He hasn’t earned any of our lives yet, no need to be so grim.” McCree’s voice was filled with exhaustion, not confidence. “He’s another old friend. Responsible for more than enough to deserve a bullet, and s’far as I can tell, is planning on guidin’ this whole,” McCree gestured with his hand to the world around them, “ _crisis_ into a head on collision with hell. Figure as long as I’m here I might as well do my part. Reckon I could have helped end things years ago if I’d had a mind to.” 

Hanzo resisted the urge to fly into another tangent about the impossibility of coming out of this alive. He supposed they had both in some measure accepted that outcome. He himself was not the slightest bit afraid of death. Instead he thumbed the rim of his glass, dipping down to press the pad against an ice cube.

“How personal is this?” he asked seriously. “I do not need to know everything, but I need to know what he did.”

“I don’t reckon that’s any of your business,” McCree countered.

“Maybe not,” Hanzo agreed, but he still waited for the answer expectantly, staring at him.

“Betrayal of trust,” admitted McCree, who had been the least honest party in this entire ordeal by way of omission. He continued. “Always knew he was rotten. Never bothered me, but there comes a point where you have to draw a line. I was never under any illusion that he was a good man, but when it came down to it, rather than accepting shit as it was he destroyed everything around him.” 

It was unclear how literally he meant that. McCree met Hanzo’s eyes for a moment, then turned his head to stare off at the rows of bottles behind the bar. “I lost an arm and Morrison lost everything. But this ain’t about that. It shouldn’t have been that way. Can’t change another man’s decisions, but you can put a bullet in their head.” 

They both chewed the admission over in the heavy silence. Empathy was not Hanzo's strong suit, but he knew the feeling of loss. He knew betrayal. He stole a glance at McCree's prosthetic, and then at the brown eyes pointed down at the bar, shadowed by the brim of his hat.

He slammed back the next glass and said, "Okay. Okay," with the oil-smooth tone of conviction. "Then we'll do it. Somehow."

He rested his forehead in his palm, taking a deep breath. Adrenaline and expectation were building up already. Despite the odds and the exhaustion, the promise of further battle thrilled him like always. That risk of failure that would send him tumbling into sprawling blackness. And McCree, too. He had to keep him alive, Hanzo reminded himself. That was what he was here for.

“You’re a desperate man, ain’t ya?” The question pulled Hanzo from his thoughts and his head raised, eyes wide as he processed what quite possibly had been meant as a horrific insult. McCree continued before full offense could sink in. “I get that you’ve got some sort of honor code and I can respect that. But you feel more like a man looking for a cause to throw himself in than purely honor-bound. This ain’t sittin’ right with me.”

In a rare moment of consideration, Hanzo quietly contemplated McCree’s words. He was unaccustomed to having to explain himself to other people. Strangely enough, this time there was not the same burning urgency as when he usually had to defend his decisions--or like when, once upon a time, he had to hold his ground against his father’s judgment. Maybe that, too, was the liquid fire in his veins.

“Perhaps you are right, in a manner of speaking. This is about more than honor.” He turned and leveled McCree with the most earnest look he could manage while under the influence. “It is about humanity.”

McCree scoffed and took a drink, and Hanzo continued unfazed, “As I told you before, as much as I would rather be hanging upside down from a tree instead of helping you, I have come this far. Staying is not a matter of honor. It would be inhuman to turn away now. And I am many things, but I try not to be a monster.” He sighed. “And if that is how things must be--if I must fight your battle with you, then I need a reason to make it mine. And now I have that reason.”

He grunted and took a sip of the sixth drink that had appeared magically in front of him. “If that still does not sit right with you, then that’s unfortunate.”

A silence sat between the two of them, cut with nothing but the stale smell of the bar. McCree continued to turn his glass under his fingertips, delicate as his brows drew heavy. When he spoke it was low, barely audible over the murmur of a group in the corner. 

“Ain’t nothin’ inhuman about turning away from a fight that ain’t yours. I’ve run into men who hold themselves the way you do before, seein’ the world with the same look in their eyes. Took me more than a little trial and error to start recognizing it for what it is. A man like you is looking for some sort of salvation.” 

The hair on the back of Hanzo’s neck prickled as a gush of anger churned with the whiskey in his stomach and chest. A memory, unbidden, flew back to him, flooding his mind with an image of the beautiful trees that surrounded the Shimada estate, and the familiar figure standing stock still between the swaying branches. A face that stirred rage and sadness in equal measure.

“Salvation?” he all but scoffed, letting the glass fall on the counter a little too loudly. “To look for that here, I would have to be even more foolish than you. Is that truly what you think of me?”

“From what you’ve been givin’ me, yeah.” McCree’s head tilted and his eyes burned into Hanzo’s, not with anger but with the same firm resolution that had him throwing himself into this death trap. “You can follow some unrelated cause into the depths of hell if you want to. You can throw yourself into Talon’s line of fire and save my skin. But even so, coming with me ain’t gonna help you find redemption.” 

Something clicked inside Hanzo, and it brought him back down to the present. Realization sobered him from his anger. “You don’t want to feel guilty for my death.”

Grimacing, McCree started, “That ain’t what I--”

“I want to make one thing clear. You do not carry the burden for my life. It is as you said before--I am here of my own volition. And it is _not_ out of some selfish … redemption.” Hanzo’s eyes sharpened. “This is my fight now too. We have fought together all this time--why should it not be?”

“God _dammit_ , Hanzo.” 

Every time McCree had said his name, though Hanzo himself had insisted he did, it felt mildly uncomfortable--like an abrupt breach of familiarity. But here, in this disgusting, disease-ridden bar, they had stumbled into a liminal space where Hanzo couldn’t help feeling that their meeting at Kingsley, the trek in the desert, and the palpably uncomfortable atmosphere between them were all shared experiences. McCree scrubbed his face exhaustedly with his palm, no longer looking at him but muttering to himself. It seemed he was having the same realization. 

“Alright.” The word chipped off of him reluctantly, like it was a last resort. McCree swallowed what was left of his drink and wiped his mouth as if it had left a bad taste. He motioned for more drinks to be brought and when he glanced at Hanzo, some of the fire from before had dissipated. “If your mind’s made up, then let’s have a couple more for the road.” 

The new glass, shining bright with amber, came as a relief. McCree lifted his drink and murmured, “Enjoy it while you can.”

Raising the whiskey to his lips, Hanzo resolved to worry about tomorrow when tomorrow came.

-

The innkeeper was not present when the two returned. It was just as well, considering that “a couple more for the road” had turned into more than McCree had anticipated when closing out their tab. He had managed to avoid getting turned around on their way back, no thanks to Hanzo’s bickering and catty comments. The Shimada felt that alcohol was an excuse to say anything that was on his mind, a trait McCree had determined from prior experience was genetic. 

“If you let the door slam that hard, the omnic will take us for robbers and shoot us,” Hanzo informed him. “Is that your aim? To kill us before Talon can sink its claws into our throats?” 

“Through the door,” McCree instructed, a hearty thud of his hand to Hanzo’s shoulder enough to steer him in the correct direction. He was shot a chilly look for his transgression, cut short by a small stumble. Shortly after their earlier heavy conversation ended, Hanzo had taken to drinking with a gusto McCree had not attempted to match. It was proving to have been a wise decision. He gestured forward to the wavering Hanzo. “Down the hall.” 

The sniper staggered forward a few steps, then wheeled around and stumbled back, briefly steadying himself with a hand on McCree’s shoulder. “You know what your problem is? You’re too--” He turned his head away politely to burp, and then restarted his sentence. “You want to drink yet you sip alcohol like it’s tea. Warriors match each other drink for drink. Have you no pride?”

Seemed that of all the faculties Hanzo lacked when drunk, articulation was not one of them. “A real warrior would know better’n to get piss drunk ‘fore a huge fight.”

The whole thing must have offended Hanzo more than he thought because the man rattled off a string of words in a blend of Japanese and English, and just about the only thing McCree could discern was that Hanzo’s entire lineage, his country, and his way of life had all been simultaneously insulted by McCree’s practicality. Seeing that Hanzo wouldn’t move by himself, McCree took him by the arm and tried to lead him down the hall. Hanzo yanked his arm back petulantly, letting out a loud, monosyllabic protest.

“Let’s go,” McCree sighed, giving the man’s arm another tug.

“I am still angry with you,” Hanzo argued mindlessly.

“Can you be angry in the room?”

Apparently he couldn’t, because he dug in his heels and refused to be moved. McCree quickly abandoned the strategy of coaxing and a short scuffle ensued where he tried physically moving Hanzo. He scrabbled against flailing limbs and frustrated grunts until eventually Hanzo slid down onto the floor and made himself into a dead weight so heavy McCree couldn’t even drag him more than a couple centimeters across the dingy floor.

McCree considered himself to be a man who knew when to leave a fight. He released Hanzo and reached up to scratch at his forehead where his hair had become somewhat itchy against his skin. It was unpleasant and solidified a decision he had been going back and forth on since the bar. 

“Alright. Stay here, then. I’m going to take a shower.” Without inflicting Hanzo with any more attempts at assistance, he turned and began to make his way down the hall. He made it almost to the end of the corridor before he heard a muffled call from behind. He ignored it at first, but it returned insistently a few times, until he surrendered and shouted back at Hanzo’s crumpled form, “What?”

The sniper began feebly pushing himself onto one knee. “Help me up. I am coming too.”

McCree stared at him, glanced back at his end of the hall, then against his better judgment made the trek back. Hanzo was much more amenable to being moved now and McCree was able to sling his arm around his shoulder, expediting their journey to the shower facilities. 

The showers were much less paltry than the hose rinse McCree had risked salmonella for. They were located outside in the back, a row of spigots rigged up to the crumbling building. McCree released Hanzo there, pulling off his duster, shirt, and struggling with the rest. He tossed them into a pile, shivering in his underwear as he fiddled with a knob on the wall. His chest was shot with a strong blast of water and he swore loudly. Lukewarm again, but he supposed they couldn’t expect luxury.

As he stepped under the spray to wet his face and hair, he vaguely heard Hanzo grumbling his way out of his own clothes, only stopping in his quiet tirade long enough to suck in an occasional quick breath. McCree closed his eyes and focused on scrubbing off his torso. It took a minute before he realized that Hanzo had stopped cursing and his was the only spigot running. McCree glanced out of the corner of his eye, half expecting to see Hanzo passed out on the ground, only to find the Shimada stripped down to his undershorts and a dark curtain of thick hair shielding his eyes--but not enough that McCree couldn’t track the path of his gaze. He just barely caught those black eyes, lit by a sliver of heat, tracing the curve of McCree’s spine and travelling lower. Pausing appreciatively.

For a moment, McCree was in disbelief. Alcohol could make a man see crazy things. He turned his head to look Hanzo directly in the face, expecting the surreal vision to dissipate, or at least for Hanzo to snap out of his momentary derision. Instead, he watched as, clear as day, the sniper purposefully moved his attention to the front of McCree’s body. His gaze slithered over McCree’s chest, down the line of his abdomen, and lingered on the trail of brown hair thickening until it disappeared beneath the damp waistband of his underwear.

It felt like he observed every follicle before realizing McCree had caught him. Even when he did, he did not react. If anything, he met McCree’s eyes with a hint of challenge. Fully admitting guilt. Daring him to say something. Then, cool as ice, he turned the knob on the shower next to McCree and bent over to dip his head under the flow. He worked his fingers through the wet hair now obscuring his face. 

There was nothing to be done, McCree determined, turning his face back towards the spray and dipping it under. He had learned the difficult lesson of not fucking with crazy years ago, and everything about Hanzo screamed crazy. He had no intention of starting now. There was a wave of amusement, however, as the look he had received spoke volumes about his companion that he had only made educated guesses at before. 

McCree turned the water off when he was as clean as he could reasonably be considering the facilities, tugged off the wet underwear, and moved to dry himself off with his duster. Mindful of Hanzo’s predicament the last time they had showered he tossed the damp article off to the side when he had finished, gesturing at it with a hand and telling him to, “Use that.” 

He took his time dressing, the sound of water hitting the pavement and Hanzo’s movements the only things to distract him from the conversation he’d had with Morrison earlier. He chose to shove it down for now, leaning against the wall once he’d dressed and reaching for a cigar. The thought of it churned his stomach which brought up mild surprise. Maybe he’d had more than he thought. Or maybe the events of the day had just set him on edge. Either way, no point in trying to light it up while he had someone to herd to the room. 

When Hanzo was dry and mostly dressed he looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “You comin’?” 

No words of assent came, but the water seemed to have sobered the Shimada up a bit. Or at the very least the exhaustion was catching up with him, too. The two made their way back to the room, Hanzo unassisted this time, and McCree felt immense relief when he saw the bed. He tossed his duster up over a hook in the wall to dry and walked forward, then paused, suddenly aware that Hanzo had stopped moving behind him. He turned and saw the other man frozen in the doorway with a blank look. The same one from earlier in the day, when he had been arrested on the floor underneath the windowsill.

McCree couldn’t help feeling frustrated. He knew the nature of these quiet spells, and while he had some sympathy, Talon wouldn’t give them any extra time to sleep in. Nor would Morrison. He tried persuading Hanzo a couple of times to come into the room, to no response. Eventually he put a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder only to have it shaken off.

“Do not,” Hanzo muttered, tone set on edge.

“You can’t stand there in the door all night, Hanzo,” McCree sighed. He was met with more silence. “I don’t wanna lay hands on you, but you gotta get in here. We got work to do, remember?”

Didn’t seem like Hanzo was capable of remembering much of anything. He continued to stand there, staring into a memory with an unreadable expression. McCree summoned enough patience to wait a few more seconds before he slowly raised his hand in a display of transparency and reached for Hanzo’s arm again. Hanzo frantically smacked it away, backing out of the room on instinct. With a slightly drunken lurch McCree grabbed him before he could scuttle out into the hallway and pulled him back through the doorway. As soon as Hanzo crossed the threshold, alarm leapt onto his face--quickly replaced by fury. Two hands insistently pushed at McCree’s shoulders and when that didn’t work, Hanzo took up scratching and kicking.

“Unhand me,” Hanzo grunted, voice tight. “Don’t--touch--”

This time McCree didn’t entertain Hanzo’s pride with discussion. He struggled to get Hanzo across the floor, hardly able to keep a handle on him. The slippery bastard would get an elbow between himself and McCree and be halfway towards the door before McCree could drag him back. All the while the cowboy uttered neutral phrases in a calm tone, “Come on now … Easy …” He paid for his persistence with a few elbows in places he’d rather not speak of.

Getting him onto the bed was a struggle, but despite the relentless refusal to cooperate it was eventually achieved. Some of the fight went out of Hanzo once he was down and McCree couldn’t find it in him to give a damn if he started up again. As far as he was concerned, he’d done his civic duty and if Hanzo fell off that was his own issue. McCree squinted at him in the dark one last time and turned his back to him to kick his shoes off. 

“Now, stay the hell down and get some sleep.” 

Thankfully Hanzo kept his peace, silent except for some ragged breathing. When he did speak up again his voice sounded like it had been through a blender.

“You asked me about redemption,” Hanzo ground out, eyes glued to the ceiling. “Because of Genji. That’s how you knew my name too--because of him.”

McCree said nothing. Wasn’t rightly sure what he could say to that, when this topic made Hanzo fly so far off the handle. If he waited long enough maybe the question would answer itself.

“My brother,” Hanzo started quietly, words swallowed up by the darkness. “He … I--”

Whatever words might have come were cut off, like roots in clotted soil choked by weeds. They hung in the air for a while before McCree reached down and placed his hand on Hanzo’s upper arm, giving it a firm squeeze. This time he was not shoved away. “You’re gonna regret it if you don’t sleep.” 

McCree lowered himself, lying on his side in the sparse bed. It was not as cold as the omnic compound, heat and humidity trapped in the room. He listened to see if Hanzo would make another attempt, but the breathing beside him steadied out in defeat.

It was better to let that topic lie. There would be plenty of time to discuss it in the future, if they avoided Talon’s swipe and made it out alive.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with an update! This one was a toughie. More heavy stuff. But after this, things will lighten up a little more again. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as you have all the other ones.

Hanzo awoke to the bright pain of the early afternoon sun beating against his temple. Eyes cracking open in stubborn slits, he tried to will away the sun with a glare. The effort made his forehead throb in agony. He had forgotten to hang up a curtain. He briefly entertained the notion of pulling his gi over the window and going back to sleep, but his lead-heavy limbs informed him otherwise. So he lay there stiffly, enduring the double-edged assault of sunlight and the previous night’s foolish decisions.

He closed his eyes, fighting down a small wave of nausea, and wracked his brain for a plan for the morning. This wasn’t the drunkest he’d ever been, but he had gotten himself well and truly plastered, and the lingering effects were preventing him from wrapping his mind around that very important thing he was supposed to do soon. It came back to him slowly over a few moments, and then fully once he heard a snore beside him.

Sitting up, gingerly cradling his head and then his stomach, Hanzo squinted past the sunlight to look at McCree. The cowboy was face-down on the mattress, an arm and a leg dangling off the side, and a damp spot near his face that Hanzo could only assume was drool. Hanzo thought to himself that he should probably check the time, take stock of their rations, curtain the window, or something. Instead he stared at McCree’s back, watching it rise and fall with each breath, observing with a quiet mindlessness. For a few minutes, all thoughts ceased.

When he came back to himself, head pounding, he was finally able to summon the energy to leave the room and go beg the innkeeper for some painkillers. Luckily he had some, which he imparted to Hanzo with what looked suspiciously like pity. Unable to scrounge up offense at the gesture of sympathy, he returned to the room with a slightly clearer head and an open palm full of pills.

McCree had stirred during his absence, most likely woken by his shifting. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, hair a complete mess, with the pale face of a man at the end of his rope. When he glanced up at Hanzo they shared a blank look before McCree extended his hand expectantly for his share of the pills. 

The two prepared themselves in silence, McCree splashing some water on his face from a bottle of mysterious origin. After hydrating the two of them began to pick up their pace, though they were still woefully slow. McCree bent over the small device Hanzo had seen him use before, eyes scanning it with exhausted seriousness. He finally put it away with a dry sniff, reaching for the water. 

“There’s a shipment going out tonight. We’re going to be there.” 

“And your contact will be too,” Hanzo clarified, voice thick in his throat. He received a tired nod. He took their bag of provisions and began pulling out more dried fruits. “Now would be the time to eat as much as you can. Just watch your stomach.”

He managed to eat a handful of fruit and some nuts, but not much else. McCree’s usual voracious appetite was apparently failing him, but he still ate a lot, Hanzo noted with some relief. Maybe it was for the best that he had been sparing with his drinks--despite the low-level offense Hanzo still felt. He himself couldn’t remember anything that had happened after they left the bar. He found himself caught up in an encroaching string of chastising thoughts. They could have been ambushed at any time on the way back to the inn, and Hanzo would have been helpless to assist. Someone could have broken into the room while they slept. Even that untrustworthy friend of McCree’s whom they were going to meet later. Hanzo still didn’t know if he could even fully trust McCree.

He floated back into awareness when he realized that the room was still deathly quiet and McCree seemed even paler than he had a few moments ago. Hanzo remembered the previous night, the other man’s downcast face, and some of his distrust softened. There was no point in worrying about that when they were both trudging toward calamity.

“Are you prepared?” Hanzo asked, earning a silent look in return. “Mentally.”

The question seemed to throw him off, taking a moment to sink in. A brow raised slightly, carrying vague amusement. “Well. About as prepared as I have been. More worried about my friend than myself, though the years can certainly harden a man.” 

“He seems accustomed to taking care of himself. He will have backup, anyway.” Hanzo crossed his arms, eyeing the other man’s ruffled facial hair. “The only thing you should worry about right now is having the proper mindset. For once, you could stand to take care of yourself.”

“I didn’t wake up this early in the mornin’ to get a lecture, Hanzo,” McCree sighed. “Can ya save it until after my headache’s gone?”

“It is already the afternoon,” Hanzo felt the need to clarify, much to McCree’s chagrin. “And that is not what I meant to do.”

He stepped over to the other side of the mattress and plopped down next to McCree, feeling it sink under their combined weight. In all honesty, living through this encounter seemed impossible. He could see that, and he knew McCree could too. There wasn’t much he could say to assuage that awareness. He stared at the wall for a few moments, searching the cracks for any words he could say that would make the current situation seem less like hell.

“I would not wish this battle on anyone,” was all he could come up with. “A man should not have to push through a legion to settle a grudge with one person.”

“‘S what happened at Kingsley. Weren’t much different,” McCree murmured, likely only half-listening.

Frowning, Hanzo responded, “I suppose not. But it is still unfair.”

“That’s the way life is, I reckon. What’s this got to do with my mindset again?”

“Perhaps nothing. That is simply how I feel,” Hanzo admitted. “Even I do not know what the right mindset is to take. I am looking at it like every other battle, while knowing it will be different than anything I’ve ever faced before. Common mission protocol has limited place here. All I know is I won’t resign. I’ll go from there and take it a step at a time.”

His gaze flicked over to McCree’s uncertain face. “What do _you_ feel?”

“Honestly?” The word hung in the air between the limited space between them, filling the void until it created contact by proxy. McCree sighed and scratched the back of his neck, eyes searching around the room as if looking for the answer. 

“I feel like shit. I’m not particularly fond of throwin’ myself into the jaws of death for an asshole who don’t deserve a second look. What’s done shoulda been done, but it ain’t. I survived a long time followin’ his orders and I don’t much feel like dyin’ now for his lyin’ ass.” McCree drew in a deep breath through his nose, as though the words had been refreshing to say. “Morrison goes alone, he dies. We go together, he might not die and, if we’re lucky, the target goes down. Sound like pretty good odds to me.” 

And yet the cowboy’s shoulders sank with his next breath, palms coming up to rub at his eyes. He didn’t strike Hanzo as a man who was afraid of death, nor did he go out of his way to avoid it. Instead, in a moment of clarity, he was able to recognize the emotion for what it was--guilt. Though he couldn’t comprehend why.

Nodding to himself, Hanzo said, “Hold onto that feeling. With enough anger and obstinance, you can make your own odds. Perhaps we might even receive a bit of that,” he couldn’t help but snort, “divine intervention you are so blessed with.”

He didn’t know how to feel about Morrison, though. Surely as the former head of Overwatch he had a lot of combat training and leadership experience. If he truly did intend to cooperate, maybe their chances were better than expected. But it would have to be a full cooperation. Hanzo would not allow them to be led blindly into the snake’s nest, nor would he accept being ordered around.

If nothing else, Hanzo’s remark seemed to have amused McCree. He chuckled and pulled himself to his feet, beginning to collect his things. Hanzo contemplated the back of the man he had chosen to follow, noting the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps if they were able to make it out alive, there would be a few moments of peace. 

-

McCree spent the better half of the day scouting the area and hooking his device up to various power sources. Hanzo had not given him enough credit, he silently admitted, as McCree had singlehandedly hacked into the security systems of the surrounding area. Turned out the shipment would be passing through a small complex of buildings, all built close together on one of the few properties that had not been bombed out. McCree assembled the floor plans for them to pore over as they ate a meager meal at a small dining room built onto the inn. 

“Place is a shithole,” McCree had remarked with a mouthful of rice flavored with spices that offended Hanzo’s palate. “But if we stick to these floors we shouldn’t get trapped. Dilapidated to hell, though, anything blows and you’d best say your Hail Mary’s.” 

Hanzo did not know what that meant, but acknowledged that if this was an arms shipment and there _were_ bombs and other explosive materials, their job would be much trickier. He made a mental note to be careful about using scatter shots. He checked his quiver and counted--seven arrows. The dragons would also be out of the question. 

“I will have to be sparing with my arrows. I am well-trained in close combat, so I can handle myself--however, I will be relying on you to cover the both of us from ranged attacks.”

Chewing on a lump of rice, brows furrowing, McCree hummed, “I ain’t exactly built for sniping.”

“I have seen what you’re capable of. If we meet with any enemies that are beyond your reach, I will take care of it. Otherwise I trust your marksmanship.”

McCree grunted in assent, still looking entirely too concerned about the whole situation. Hanzo couldn’t blame him.

His eyes flicked over the holoscreen map, locating an open area on one floor in the main building, a little larger than all the other rooms, with a convenient entrance from a large hallway leading outside the building. That was most likely where the cargo would go through.

“It would be best to avoid the shipment as much as possible. Hopefully he stays away from it.”

“Wouldn’t put all my eggs in that particular basket, but miracles do happen.” A small message popped up on the side of the screen and McCree doubled over, quickly scooping the rest of what very well might have been his last meal into his mouth. “That’s Morrison. Time to head out. Nightfall soon.” 

Without waiting for assent from his partner, McCree stood and threw money down for their meal, tucking his device away and tugging his duster around his shoulders. Hanzo followed when he left, a heaviness settling in his chest. 

The journey to the building where the arms shipment was to be transferred was harrowing. They kept to main streets for a while, but a few turns led them down to the area they had first passed when entering Dorado. Most of the buildings were falling apart, damaged from bombs and gang infighting. There were signs of everywhere of lingering Los Muertos goons, whom McCree and Hanzo took extreme care to avoid. The heaviness dropped down into Hanzo’s stomach and he regretted the heavy meal McCree had insisted they eat before. 

Morrison was waiting on the outskirts of the city, holed up in the shell of an old building. McCree tipped his hat at him when they came close, receiving a curt nod in return. The old man gave Hanzo a look he could not decipher before bringing out a device much like McCree’s and pulling up a holoscreen. 

“Should be an in and out deal. Talon’s just here to make sure the shipment goes smoothly.” 

“Seems awful careful of them.” McCree raised a brow at Morrison. “On edge because of someone’s activities, maybe?” 

Morrison grunted, pulling up a few other screens. “Perimeter sweep first. I’ll keep in contact with you. Then we converge on the shipment area.” 

“You have one of these, but you keep a flip phone? You know, technology has come a long way since we were in diapers, these _can_ make calls.” 

As usual, McCree was ignored. Morrison turned to Hanzo, staring at him again, inscrutable. He spoke in a slow voice that held the slightest note of uncertainty. “You sure you want to get yourself wrapped up in this?” 

Hanzo huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I am already wrapped up in it. And I intend to see it through to the end.”

That was enough for Morrison. He slipped the device back into his coat and hefted his gun up over his shoulder. “We stick to the plan, we get out of here alive.” 

He turned and left, skulking off towards the main building. Hanzo noted McCree watching him go, brow furrowed as he stared a hole in the back of the man’s jacket. Hanzo squeezed his arms over his chest a little tighter, tapping a finger impatiently. McCree snapped out of it and gave him a nod and a half smile, heading out in the opposite direction of Morrison. 

“Perimeter check, huh. How many agents d’you think they’d send to keep a meddling old man out?” He didn’t wait for an answer, ducking in through a back door and holding it open for Hanzo.

“Not enough, apparently.” He strode through, already on high alert for the footsteps of enemies, but not enough to draw his bow yet. He turned to McCree as he closed the door with more care than Hanzo had ever seen him expend before. “They did not account for us either.”

The two swept the area, alarmed at the lack of personnel. The building truly was abandoned, something that at first seemed like a blessing but, with the crumbling walls alerting their positions, proved to be the opposite. The two huddled close when a vibration in McCree’s pocket alerted him to an incoming call from Morrison. He held up the screen so they could both see. 

“Got the security cameras,” came Morrison’s gruff voice, shortly followed by video feed. All of it looked familiar, since McCree and Hanzo had seen the floor plans earlier. Which was why it came as a surprise that some rooms appeared to have no cameras. “Half of ‘em are down, but we’ve got enough. Perimeter clear?” 

“Little too clear,” McCree told him gravely. “Any sight of him?” 

“Not yet. Make your way around and we’ll get closer to the shipment.” Morrison’s connection blipped out and McCree looked over the security cameras with his mouth pressed tight. 

“Weird, ain’t it?” he asked, possibly to Hanzo. 

“Isn’t _what_ weird?” 

“All the cameras that are down are in this building and the security building. You’d think Talon agents would be hiding in those rooms, but we haven’t heard a peep. We couldn’t have missed them, right?” He slipped the device away and shook his head. “Don’t trust it. Let’s make another quick sweep. Split up and check the area again, I’m going to check the security building. Meet me at the shipment when you’re done.” 

The thought of splitting up didn’t sit right with Hanzo when they were already spread so thin. If he was quick, though, they’d probably be fine. “Don’t linger there too long by yourself,” he warned. He ran for the stairs to the upper level, bow drawn. The shipment would arrive in this building--the most likely site of conflict was here. Maybe they had missed something on an upper floor. He checked the level above the ground floor and found it just as eerily silent as the rest of the building.

The only place they hadn’t checked was the third floor, which was so dilapidated that the steps up to it were crumbling and unusable. If armed forces were coming from that level, they would’ve either crashed through the floor, or Hanzo and McCree would have heard them coming a mile away. Right?

Hanzo recalled the floor plans that McCree had gathered earlier. There was another, out-of-the-way entrance to the second and ground floors from the opposite end of the third floor. A narrow staircase running to the second floor--also half-crumbled, but in better condition. There had also been a few vents scattered around that area, leading to the outside. All unlikely places that an army could pour through, but it was worth checking. The third floor was the only place they hadn’t dared to check.

Mouth tightening in a thin line, Hanzo darted across the second floor and clambered up the other staircase, kicking a few pieces of cement to the ground along the way. He quietly ducked out of the doorway and into a hall. At the end of it he saw something long and blue flick around the corner and out of sight. Careful to keep his steps noiseless, he gave chase through a series of corridors lined with peeling doors. Eventually the path opened up into a small room with a window. Shielding himself behind a wall, he peered out and saw the figure of a woman, skin and hair blue, leaping swiftly out of the window. He saw a flash of metal in her hands.

He scurried to the window, searching the ground and the rooftops of other buildings for her--nothing. He had a bad feeling. Had she detected him? Had this been a trap? Bow drawn, he turned and swiftly checked the area, kicking in a few doors. Nobody.

Suddenly he felt the floor rumble. The sound of gunshots, heavy and loud, rained down in rapid bursts from below. It sounded like an entire army was storming the ground floor. Close to the shipment area. McCree must have returned and encountered trouble.

Hanzo had foolishly let himself be drawn away from the objective. He hissed and dashed back toward the staircase, wasting no effort on remaining stealthy. He returned to the second level and sprinted for the ground floor staircase again. He only got halfway across the room before he saw men dressed all in black pushing up in a mass, sweeping the area with their guns cocked, silent as death. One of them immediately caught sight of Hanzo.

He cursed and drew an arrow. The man was dead before he could even shout a warning to the others behind him.

-

It had not taken long for McCree to locate the shipment. It was a large armored vehicle docked in the entrance of a warehouse. It was straightforward enough, but there was something very wrong with the situation that had set his teeth on edge since entering. 

There was no one around. Not a soul in sight in the actual building, only patrols on the perimeter and inside the surrounding buildings. The cargo had already been stowed--who knew how long ago--and rather than protecting the shipment, the thugs seemed to be looking for something--or someone.

McCree stayed close to the wall, avoiding surveillance cameras. Even though Morrison had probably taken care of the working ones, he didn’t want to take any chances. Rather than risk talking he sent him his coordinates as the unease came to a broil in his gut. Something was wrong here. 

And then he saw him. A flash of dark fabric moving into the room, a glimpse of a mask before it lost its form, ghosting along the floor as dark smoke. McCree stood stock still as he drank in a sight that should have been impossible, drawing a breath only when he saw the smoke take shape and solidify in front of a machine. The man opened up a panel and began furiously inputting something, growling and slamming his hand against it when it seemed to not give the correct result. McCree heard a string of curses in a low, growling tone and immediately knew. 

That was him. Reyes. Reaper, as he went by now. Always did have too much of a sense of theatrics. Too flashy, no class. Any doubt was removed from his mind in an instant. He raised his gun, closed an eye and took careful aim for the back of his head. He exhaled slowly and cocked his gun. 

The sound of it was small, minute, but in the silence of the warehouse it seemed to echo along with his pounding heartbeat. Reaper’s head twitched in McCree’s direction and in an instant his body destabilized, falling back into smoke and sweeping around the room in search of the sound. McCree took a step back, then another, but froze again as the smoke came his way. He pressed himself against a large crate, catching Reaper reforming out of the corner of his eye. 

Reaper tilted his head from side to side, moving it in slow sweeps as he silently searched. It felt more like he was sniffing him out rather than looking for him and McCree felt a surge of relief as some sound in the corner of the room misled him. He allowed himself to let out a thin breath of relief. 

It was a mistake. In an instant Reaper turned, lifting his gun and throwing himself over to where McCree was standing. He barely had time to avoid a spray of bullets, rolling to the side and scrambling to get around the other side of the crate. Reaper followed, loud blasts behind him coming closer and closer. A bullet grazed McCree’s leg and he cursed, putting as much distance between them as he could. 

His desperate scrambling led him so far out into the open that light fell on his face, completely exposing him. Reaper stepped out from behind the crates, raising his guns again, then paused. He slowly tilted his head as he looked McCree over, giving him enough time to lift his own gun. A deep chuckle rumbled throughout the warehouse, guttural and nasty.

“And here I was expecting someone worth a damn. I thought you’d given up trying to play hero.” 

Did that mean he had been expecting Morrison? McCree’s mind raced, a strained smile coming to his mouth as he tried to buy himself some time. “Well, figured someone had to shoot you down.” 

“ _Ha_!” The laughter was spat at his feet. “Still too full of yourself. I taught you everything you know, you ungrateful little _shit_.” 

The Reyes that McCree knew would never lose the opportunity to lord these things over him, and it seemed in that respect he hadn’t changed at all. McCree flicked his wrist and a small object fell from his sleeve, a small explosive no larger or more powerful than a cherry bomb. It was a cheap tactic, but one he had perfected over time. 

Reaper growled lowly and took a step towards him, but McCree raised his hand and threw the small stun grenade, aiming for the mask. It cracked off the side of it, bursting with a loud crackle into smoke and causing Reaper to stagger back. It was just enough time and McCree turned quickly, darting back amongst the crates. 

The mixture of a growl and cry that came from the man he’d once known chilled something deep in his gut. It barely sounded human and he was suddenly aware of how woefully unprepared he was to take him on alone. Reyes had always been crazy, but his activities went beyond anything he had done while they had worked together. He reminded himself that this was no longer the man he had once respected as he lifted himself onto a crate and took quick aim. 

One shot went through Reaper as he shifted into smoke, curling around the crates and giving chase when McCree hopped down and started running. A furious cry came from behind him, followed by the whooshing sound of smoke rising, then gunshots. Far too many--McCree turned just in time to see Reaper in mid-spin, seemingly shooting in every direction at once, before he had the chance to dive behind a metal bin. He waited until the shots finished and drew himself up, swinging his arm around to take aim. 

McCree’s heart stuttered as a click sounded behind his head. When had he gotten there? He stood, aiming his gun into an empty room and frozen still as low laughter sounded behind him. Maybe Reyes had always been right. Wherever McCree went, he was always one step ahead, always just fast enough to get on top. His blood chilled as he heard the gravelly, unforgiving voice behind him. 

“One off the list.” 

-

The thug’s helmet cracked audibly as Hanzo slammed his head against the wall. Pulling the now-limp body against him as a shield, Hanzo dashed forward against a spray of bullets, thrust the bullet-riddled thug at the last remaining enemy near the stairs, and leapt out to hook his bow around the shooter’s neck. In one quick, merciless movement, he flung him against the wall, smashing his helmet open in a thick fissure. He could see blood dripping against the fractured visor. He let the body drop and ran down the stairs, down to the ground level.

He had managed to escape relatively unharmed. He did a quick check and found that he had been bruised and grazed in a few places--not even enough to be more than a few skinned patches. And thanks to adrenaline he hardly even felt the wounds. If not for his many years of training in hand-to-hand combat, he would have been slaughtered.

A concern still festered inside him. The hailstorm of bullets he had escaped sounded nothing like what he had heard coming from the ground floor--what was _still_ coming from the ground floor, not letting up for an instant. That meant there were still enemies carrying heavy weaponry to contend with. And throughout the encounter upstairs, Hanzo had expended all but two of his arrows.

He heard the sound of a gun cocking far behind him. He whipped around and saw that one of the men he’d knocked down stood back up, aiming for him. Hanzo immediately loosed an arrow straight into the man’s skull. All but one arrow, then.

He cursed himself for not being more economical. Surely he could have preserved his ammunition better. Now he would be unable to provide McCree with proper backup. He decided there was no sense in dwelling on past mistakes--he was needed. He made his way swiftly to the shipment area, prepared to mow down anyone in his way.

Surprisingly, however, he met with no more opposition. Just the sounds of that alarmingly heavy fire coming from the shipment area, gradually slowing down. Heart pounding, he ran in, careful to duck behind some crates so he could get a read on the situation. He peered around and in a split second saw three things--Morrison across the room, taking careful aim with his pulse rifle. By the stillness of his frame and the finger on the trigger, he seemed to have lined up the perfect shot, but for some reason he wasn’t taking it. Then Hanzo turned and saw, only a few feet away, a hooded figure with a sharp-edged white mask. His gun was raised, and at the end of his barrel: McCree. White as a ghost.

Anger flooded through Hanzo so fast and hot that he saw red. He leapt onto the crate, drawing back his final arrow, firing at the man’s head. In his haste, he missed the mark, and the arrow instead plunged straight into the man’s neck. An inhuman, gurgling shout filled the area like the war cry of a demon. McCree’s head turned to Hanzo, eyes wide, sweat dripping down his cheek. His eyelids slowly drooped down, almost an imperceptible amount, and Hanzo could see his entire frame relax. The sight made fear spring into Hanzo’s chest anew. McCree had the face of a sick man who had just been granted a few more short days.

The man dissolved half into smoke and fled to the other side of the room. The arrow fell out, but the damage had been done--one of his dark hands clawed at the smoke around his throat, futilely grasping for the wound. Hanzo wasted no time in grabbing McCree and pulling him back behind better cover, hissing, “I should have come back sooner.” He was talking to himself as much as he was McCree. 

“You saved my ass.” The sarcasm Hanzo had expected from the man was absent and it hit him in several waves that McCree looked genuinely relieved to see him. It was an emotion that settled deeply into the creases of the cowboy’s brow and mouth. McCree, with his wild luck, had always seemed invincible in spite of everything Hanzo thought. Most perturbing was how heartfelt the gratitude in his eyes was. It was gone in a flash as another scream ripped out from behind them. Hanzo snapped his head to the side, just in time to see Morrison shoot him a look and slink back away from the shipment. 

“Quickly! We must leave.” Hanzo grabbed McCree’s arm, hand closing around metal, and received no protest as he dragged him towards the exit. It seemed McCree understood how unprepared and unorganized they were, how impossible taking this phantom down would be. McCree’s friend had retreated as well, and most importantly he had _not taken the shot _. At the risk of McCree’s life. Hanzo could not understand it, anger boiling to the surface and causing him to dig his fingers into metal as they ran.__

__Even once they were long out of the building, both Reaper and Morrison far behind, McCree didn’t pull his wrist from his grasp._ _

__-_ _

__After they escaped, Morrison was nowhere to be found. Hanzo had no idea where he was, or where they were expected to regroup. He could only think to head back towards the inn and hope he caught up. So they ran, ducking in and out of alleys, McCree’s footsteps dreadfully heavy against the pavement. It was the only sound that passed between him. Blood pumped in his ears, his frustration showing no signs of abating. He allowed himself to think of nothing but getting back. He could be furious later._ _

__Eventually they reached the street in front of the inn, where Hanzo stopped and assessed whether or not they had been followed. He let go of McCree long enough to do a quick check of the area. No enemy presences--no sign of the man from before, who now he guessed was the target of their operation. But he felt a niggling presence. Just the faintest sense of someone else nearby._ _

__The sound of footsteps had Hanzo wheeling around, finally releasing McCree to glare into an alley at a dim red light that grew brighter as the steps grew louder. Morrison walked out from the shadows, gun slung over his shoulder, hunched with tension. He approached the two of them, standing at a distance and eyeing first Hanzo, then McCree with a heavy gaze. He seemed to be waiting for one of them to speak. McCree took on the burden._ _

__“You’re alive.” His voice was heavy, somewhat strained. Hanzo glanced at him, watching him rub a hand over his face. “Didn’t expect him to be…”_ _

__The words trailed off and Morrison picked them up. “Not human anymore. That… _thing_ doesn’t take damage like a man.” _ _

__“Gotta find a way.” McCree rubbed his mouth with his palm and Hanzo felt a spark of annoyance that grew to fury. Neither of them were talking about what had _happened_. _ _

__“You could have done it. You were there,” Hanzo snapped out at Morrison. McCree’s eyes flickered to the other man and Morrison met the gaze through his visor. “You had the shot lined up. How long did you intend to wait?”_ _

__Morrison’s brows furrowed. “I had to make sure the shot would kill him. You’re a marksman--you should understand the importance of that.”_ _

__“So you put your mission over your comrade,” Hanzo growled._ _

__Morrison’s brows drew together even more, a disconcerted grunt coming out. “If I took the shot and he lived, he could easily come back and pick us off again.”_ _

__“McCree could have _died_ ,” Hanzo shouted, drawing up until he was almost chest to chest with Morrison. He glared into the visor and fisted a hand in his lapel, pulling him down just slightly. “You were there. He _needed_ you, and you failed him. We are responsible for each other’s lives. That’s what being a team means.”_ _

__“I had a clear shot.” The voice came from behind Hanzo. McCree took a few steps forward, but didn’t come close to the two. “I had a clear line of fire and I didn’t take it. I suspect for the same reasons as you.”_ _

__Morrison’s gaze shot to McCree, then back to Hanzo. He jerked himself away roughly and regarded McCree again in silence before breaking it sharply. “And?”_ _

__“And Hanzo’s right. We were up shit’s creek without a paddle. There’s no way any one of us individually could have taken him out. Hell, he shot an arrow into his neck and the bastard didn’t die. We go in without solid coordination again, we die.”_ _

__Morrison breathed out gruffly, fingers flexing on his rifle. He shook his head. “Shouldn’t have gotten others involved. Almost got you killed. Next time stay out of it.”_ _

__“Now, hold on.” McCree’s expression knit with disapproval. “You go in alone, you’re a dead man. You already forget how to work with others? This ain’t just your fight.”_ _

__“ _Yes_ , it is,” Morrison snapped. “Take care of that wound. Get out of Dorado.” _ _

__The man wheeled around and made his way back into the alley before either of them could cut him off. McCree watched him go, then lifted his hat to run his hand through his hair._ _

__“God _damn_ it.” _ _

__Fuming, Hanzo unwittingly jogged forward a few steps as if to chase after Morrison but stopped himself. “I cannot believe this selfishness. This is your fight too. Our fight.” He turned to McCree. “Shall I go after him?”_ _

__“Don’t. Even if we caught him, I don’t rightly know what we could do about him.”_ _

__Hanzo could think of a few things he’d like to do about Morrison. But McCree still had that shaken look in his eyes, staring off through a building. Walking back over to him, Hanzo seethed, “I won’t ask you, because I suspect I won’t be satisfied with the answer. But whatever the reason is that he chose not to shoot, it’s inexcusable. I hope you realize that.”_ _

__McCree offered no response, no hint of denial. There was something guilty about the silence. He let his hand fall and sniffed, head tilting towards the inn. With a small nod in Hanzo’s direction he entered, making his way towards their room. Hanzo followed, noting his unnatural gait and the wound on his leg. That would have to be taken care of quickly._ _

__The light in the room flickered and struggled to stay on as McCree dumped himself on the bed, shucking his shoes off and then his pants, tossing them on the ground. Yet again he was stripped down to those black briefs. He would look almost comical with his chest armor and shirt still on, if it weren’t for the context of the situation. He threw his duster on the pile and began searching through his bag, cursing until he found a small med kit. Hanzo watched as he began applying antiseptic. He only realized he had been staring at his leg when McCree broke the silence._ _

__“I didn’t shoot neither. Coulda if I wanted to. Had the gun pointed right at his head and we just stood there havin’ a conversation.”_ _

__Hanzo’s eyes snapped up to McCree’s downcast face. “You said as much before. However, the only one you put at risk in that situation was yourself.”_ _

__He paused, looking back down at McCree’s leg. The hairs around his wound were plastered back by the antiseptic, hints of blood still clinging to their tips. A spark of fire flared up in his gut again. It was impossible to tell whether he acquired the injury before or after Morrison showed up. Impossible to tell how long the old bastard been poised there, waiting for his perfect shot._ _

__“You used to know the man.” He growled and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “If it were me, after what he’d done, I would have last words for him too.”_ _

__McCree let out a sharp bark of a laugh at that, quickly followed by a hiss as he doused the wound with another splash of antiseptic. “That’d be the case, if I’d had words to give. Mostly stood there gaping like a fish out of water. Wish I’d said somethin’ real snappy. Guess I’d better figure it out in advance for next time.”_ _

__Despite McCree’s amusement, his hands shook slightly as he pressed gauze to the wound, wiping blood from around the area. The man was rattled, it was understandable, but they had been in dire situations before without half this reaction. The knowledge made Hanzo madder still. Mad at Morrison, mad at himself, mad at the damned wound for even _existing_ \--_ _

__He got down on his knees and snatched the gauze from McCree’s hand. He dabbed away the rest of the blood without asking permission or apologizing. “When I was still with the Shimada, on more than one occasion I was forced to kill traitors. Men I drank and fought with for years. There is never anything ‘snappy’ enough that you can say, but the impulse is inevitable.”_ _

__After checking for bits of shrapnel, he tossed aside the bloodied gauze and got a fresh piece, pressing it against the now-clean wound, and dug out a roll of bandages and medical-grade tape from the kit. He began wrapping the bandage roll around the gauze, careful not to make it too tight. He focused all of his effort into the task, as if doing so could reverse what had happened. If he ever met that hooded man again, he would shoot him. And next time, he would not miss._ _

__“Your debt’s paid, y’know.” The words cut through Hanzo’s thoughts. “You don’t have to stick around. ‘Specially if the old man won’t suffer me being in his territory, or whatever the hell. Woulda been a goner for sure if you hadn’t shown up. A life for a life.”_ _

__Hanzo looked at him like he had two heads. He had not even considered the notion of debt, and he couldn’t imagine how McCree thought it had been repaid when they had failed so spectacularly. “You would not have been in such danger in the first place if I had come back sooner.” He grimaced as he tore the bandage off with his teeth and applied the tape. “I hate to admit it, but Morrison was not the only one who failed to cater to the team. He is merely the one who failed most egregiously. We all failed because we did not work as a team.”_ _

__“Can’t argue with that. What a shitshow.” McCree stood gingerly and grabbed his pants, pulling them back up his thighs and fastening them before dropping back down. “But how many failures is it going to take for you to feel you’ve served honorably?”_ _

__That usual look was back in McCree’s eyes again--the shrewd stare that Hanzo could feel go right through him. He could only hope that meant McCree felt a little more grounded now. “Until the failures cease. I gave you my word we would kill him, and make it out alive. We only achieved one of those.”_ _

__“That was also when we thought an arrow through the neck could kill a man.” McCree let it go, shaking his head and rubbing his face with his palm. “The hell was that? Ain’t enough whiskey in the world to deal with that. Miserable bastard.”_ _

__Hanzo watched as he leaned back against the wall, reaching up to take his hat off. McCree set it beside himself, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. After a moment, he spoke in a reluctant tone._ _

__“He bailed my ass out of prison once. Out of no kindness of his own soul, mind. He couldn’t have cared less if I rotted in jail, but he could see talent for what it was. At the time I was suspicious as hell. Rightly shoulda been. But after a while I started seein’ what he’d done as savin’ me. People like that leave a mark, whether it’s in your chest or,” McCree slapped a palm onto his metal arm. “Outside where everyone can see it.”_ _

__Hanzo regarded McCree’s arm soberly. He was surprised to hear more about this mysterious man, like he was eavesdropping on something he was not meant to hear. That strange, uncomfortable familiarity he’d felt at the bar crept back under his skin._ _

__“I cannot deny your talent,” he started carefully. “And whatever marks he has left, they have not hindered your strength. Unlike him.” His eyes sharpened. “Strong men do not need to shoot their opponents from behind.”_ _

__McCree met his gaze, somber and serious, and after a moment gave him a slow nod. He continued to watch him, searching for something Hanzo would not have had a name for if he’d known, then eventually lightened. Half of McCree’s mouth rose in a smile and he leaned over to grab his duster, fishing around in it until he pulled out a cigar and match. Hanzo’s nose wrinkled as he struck it against the windowsill, but he could not find it in himself to complain._ _

__Time prickled from moment to moment as McCree sat with his head against the wall, eyes closed and silently smoking, until a wavering calm settled in the room. Hanzo found himself sitting on the opposite side of the bed, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap. The two privately picked apart the events of the day in silence, smoke wafting between them. There were no words, but the sense of an extra presence--one that was somewhat friendly--was enough._ _

__After a few moments of covertly analyzing McCree’s face and body, seeing the stiffness in his shoulders start to slowly abate, Hanzo felt the tentative peace solidify enough for his concern to ease. He turned toward the window, remembering absently that they could definitely do with a curtain. As he stared blankly at the other rundown buildings just outside, the image of McCree’s relief floated back to him like a specter. He truly thought he was going to die, and neither Hanzo nor Morrison had been there with him. It should not have been that way. He should not have been at death's doorstep alone._ _

__He tried not to think about it, attuning his senses to McCree beside him, listening to his breath and smelling the heady scent of cigar smoke. He was alive. They were both alive. They were here._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual quote from a chapter summary done by clownsick during the planning stages of the action scene: "Hanzo shoots Reaper in the neck. Reaper flails around waving his arms like a stuntman on fire."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, with a fairly long chapter! This one's a lot less heavy. Hanzo and McCree have a little fun, and Morrison has old man feelings. Hope you guys enjoy reading this one as much as we had fun writing it.

The next day, as soon as he awoke, Hanzo took out his communicator, loaded up the garbled display, and sent an encrypted request to his last remaining major contact in Japan. He needed more ammunition as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Hanzo’s arrows were completely customized, with the finest materials hand-picked to his liking--all ordered separately and assembled by his own hands to ensure that his purchases could not be tracked. That meant getting the components quickly would require calling in a favor, and he didn’t have many of those left. Nonetheless, if he intended to stick with McCree and clear his debt, he had no choice. So he sent the message, and took the opportunity to send a separate request to an informant. He had many questions--about Overwatch, about McCree, about Morrison. About Genji.

Within only a few hours of sending the message, Hanzo received word that his components would be dispatched out with an unknown agent who would hide them at specific coordinates in Dorado. The estimated time of delivery was a vague “few days.”

The days before the supplies came were incredibly aimless. They had to lay low while McCree’s leg healed. They ventured out of their room long enough to eat meals and to shower--well, Hanzo showered. McCree could not while the worst of the wound healed, so by the second or third day he stank with the pungent odor of a wounded animal. One that smoked. A lot. Hanzo complained a minimal amount. Sometimes he left to patrol the area and stretch his legs.

The only time they both ventured outside the inn was to a small gas station because McCree had insisted the coffee at the inn was not the same as the coffee from a gas station. He bought three huge cups of the sludge for himself, one of which Hanzo regretted trying in a moment of relatively good humor.

It was not peaceful, but it was quiet. It was better than being dead.

When Hanzo got the coordinates to his supply cache, his head spun with relief. He found them in a ruined building a mile out of town: a single metal crate hidden in rubble. He brought the crate back to the room, where he found McCree sitting up on the bed, revolver in one hand and a rag in the other. He looked up, a cigar hanging loosely out of the corner of his mouth. “All there?”

Hanzo sat down on the floor and cracked the crate open. Everything was in discrete bundles--shafts, arrowheads, feathers, and all--per his request. “All here,” he confirmed. He immediately began pulling out the pieces and assembling them. After he had completed the first one, he finally felt allowed to say, “With this, I will once again be ready for combat. What is our plan from here?”

Since their last brush with death McCree had seemed to accept their partnership, or at the very least Hanzo’s steadfast dedication to repaying his debt. If he had any thoughts, he kept them to himself as he let out a puff of cigar smoke, moving his hands deftly along the gun. “Welp. Mostly sittin’ around trying to figure out if Talon’s still interested in the area. If they ain’t, we move on. If they are, we figure out where and intercept.” 

So, more head-on confrontations with Talon. Hanzo let out a sigh through his nose as he carefully affixed an arrowhead setting to a shaft and popped in a scatter and then a sonar nodule to test the fit. He had received more of those nodules as well. “Are we looking for the target, or your friend Morrison?”

“Both. We’ll be expected this time, so have to be careful. Primary concern is gettin’ ahold of Morrison.” McCree chewed lightly on his cigar, bringing the gun close to his face and squinting an eye as he looked it over. “Hopefully we can catch him before he does somethin’ stupid.” 

Hanzo figured as much. He was still exceedingly angry with Morrison’s lack of care, but he knew they had to find him and make sure he was okay. Hanzo had pledged himself to the entire team, not just McCree.

“If Talon is still in the area, they are likely to have set up camp somewhere within range of a reliable power source. My communicator can detect surges of power, so I will go scouting for those areas. We might at least be able to put Talon on the map, or, if necessary,” he glanced sidelong at McCree, “draw them out.”

The cowboy met the glance, but did not match his intensity or seriousness. He had lightened up considerably the more time passed between them and the incident, and Hanzo found he did not like that at all. “Don’t look so grim, Hanzo.” 

For a while it seemed that was all he would say on the matter. It felt lacking and Hanzo grew more incensed with every passing arrow he put together, trying to formulate something to say that could cap off the stilted conversation. McCree spoke before he could come up with something satisfactory. 

“I’d like to say we weren’t important enough to draw ‘em out, but Talon’s definitely gonna want my head now. Well, not Talon. But,” McCree nodded his head lightly as if to himself, “He will.” 

Hanzo did not have to ask who he meant. He watched McCree out of the corner of narrowed eyes, waiting for him to elaborate. 

“He and Morrison used to be close. And I don’t mean drinking buddies, though I’m sure they did plenty of that back in the day, but the kinda close you keep against your back during a fight. Heard they did a lot of that during the war. The way he put it, he was always looking out for Morrison’s ass. Leadin’ the assault and makin’ the hard decisions.”

McCree ran a thumb along the barrel of his gun. “Damned near killed him when the bigwigs crushed his pride and made Morrison head of Overwatch instead. Said they should have given command to someone who could make the necessary sacrifices. I guess it worked out, because that’s all we ever did.” 

There it was again--that influx of information Hanzo shouldn’t have but now did. The usual surprise and discomfort had melted away somewhat. If McCree was giving him more snippets of Overwatch’s sordid past, then it must be necessary. “So that is why Morrison believes this is his mission alone,” he guessed, taking a long look at the shaft poised between his fingers, waiting for him to apply the synthetic feathers. “As always, men lose their heads in the battle for power and pride.”

He turned his gaze to McCree. He paused for a few moments, unsure if he should be asking, but with a strange desire to know more. “Whose side were you on?”

“Wasn’t on anyone’s side but my own. Not at first, anyway. I could see where both were comin’ from, and I didn’t exactly have a moral code back then. He’d come to me bitchin’ about Morrison doin’ this or that for the organization and I’d tell him yeah, sounds about right. Didn’t really start forming an opinion ‘til things were going to shit and I took a step back.” McCree shrugged a shoulder. “Guess I was on Morrison’s side when push came to shove. That’s how he saw it, anyway.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell over McCree’s side of the room. He chewed on his cigar before saying, “It’s Reyes, by the way. Don’t know how much the Shimada kept tabs on Blackwatch, but he was in contact with one of yours.” 

Genji. The words lingered heavily in the air. Hanzo bristled, unsure if he could afford to pursue this conversation any further. He turned his attention back to his arrow, quickly and deftly securing the feathers. He managed to keep his voice surprisingly calm. “We observed Overwatch very closely for a time, before my father died. He was exceedingly concerned with how we would be affected, if we could make allegiances. But the Shimada had largely collapsed before Overwatch’s internal conflict became big news.” He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing. “I did not know, but it does not surprise me that Genji ultimately went to Blackwatch. His skills would have been most useful there.”

And there it was. He never thought he would allow the name to fall so freely from his mouth, and he almost immediately regretted it. But McCree already knew. He had to. Otherwise he would not have known Hanzo’s name, or made so many covert mentions to the Shimada. The whole song and dance they’d performed avoiding the subject almost made Hanzo feel worse than acknowledging Genji’s presence. Almost.

“Were,” McCree confirmed at length. He seemed to have noted Hanzo’s discomfort, but he continued. 

“You know Blackwatch’s reputation, then. And how it sullied Overwatch. Reyes was over the moon about it, bitter son of a bitch.” Of course McCree had dubious ties. There was a poisonous hint of fondness in his voice. “Wasn’t all bad. We all had our loyalties. Friendships. Almost died countless times because of his orders, though.”

Hanzo was thankful for the redirection back to the main topic. He sighed, “That is what happens when good men are led by bad leaders. The whole division takes blame for one man’s indiscretions. How foolish, to take pride in making sacrifices--they weren’t his to make. He is not the one who suffered for them.”

He could not believe his luck. Not only had he stumbled into a conflict involving the leader of Overwatch, the man they were targeting was his infamous darker half. Whatever he had become was even more sinister and frightening. Hanzo put down the arrow and started up a continuous flow of arrow production, using the motions to quell the two-fold anger in his chest that branched off in different directions.

“The indignity is maddening,” he growled, more to himself than McCree. “No matter. There will be other chances to settle the score. After we find Morrison.”

“Shouldn’t be that hard. Man’s too obvious for his own good. There’s an international manhunt going for him. Hell, I was able to track him down.” McCree shook his head. “Probably tryin’ to run himself into the ground.” 

That was very likely. Morrison had seemed like a man at the end of his rope and if he was going to confront someone who undoubtedly would try to kill him, it did seem that he was just running blindly until someone shot him down. Hanzo could understand that mentality. It was causing them a great deal of inconvenience. The sooner they found him, the better. 

-

Scouting the area for power surges was proving to be much less rewarding than Hanzo had initially hoped. McCree had gone to gather some intel on his own and Hanzo could only hope that he’d had more success than himself as he trudged back into the inn. As he passed a door leading to a yard at the back of the inn the sound of a gunshot rang out. He froze, then slowly reached for his bow. 

It sounded suspiciously close to the sound of McCree’s gun. Had someone found them there? Talon? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Hanzo pulled out an arrow, pressing his back to the wall and inching closer to the doorway, taking a quick look out back. 

He saw McCree sitting on a stoop, half a six pack of beer cans beside him and gun in hand. There was a rotted stump a few yards away, a number of cans scattered around it, all of them littered with holes. Hanzo’s brain caught up to the state of affairs, feeling an unwarranted foolishness that built into fury. 

“What are you doing?!” Hanzo dropped off the single step down onto the stoop, coming close to McCree and staring him down with righteous anger. 

“What does it look like?” McCree plucked another beer from the pack and raised it in Hanzo’s direction. “Want to help me finish these off?” 

“You were supposed to be scouting the area! Looking for intel!” 

“And I was. Didn’t find any and it’s about to get dark. Do you want this or not?” He waved the can in front of him, then brought it close to himself and opened it without waiting further for a response from Hanzo. He took a drink, meeting his eyes. Hanzo did not appreciate the spark of amusement. 

“And what if someone hears you? Darkness will not provide us cover from your _racket_.” Hanzo’s practical argument was met with another long, obnoxious, drawn-out swig. It seemed yet again they had reached an irreconcilable impasse.

The sniper tilted his head back and let out a loud groan. By this point he was too exhausted with McCree’s general behavior to continue the struggle. The cowboy took another can from the pack and tossed it over, missing Hanzo’s hand just enough that he had to lean out and snatch it from the air. With a scowl, Hanzo observed the brand of the can, which displayed a friendly eight-eyed omnic that brandished a thumbs-up. At least, he assumed it was meant to be friendly, as much as a living circuitboard could express useful emotions.

He opened the can, took a drink, and was so initially appalled by the taste that he unwillingly spit some out on the ground. Raising an eyebrow, McCree said, “Hey now, that’s mighty wasteful. Good beer costs a pretty penny in parts like these.”

Hanzo couldn’t help but roll his eyes up. “My sincerest apologies to your wallet.” He took another drink and this time, since he knew what to expect, he managed to swallow it and appreciate the swill for what it was.

With a great heaving exhalation McCree pushed himself up from the ground and walked over to the litter he’d left, leaning down to grab one of the less bent cans and placing it upright on the stump. He walked back over to the stoop he’d been sitting on and dropped back down, raising his gun and squinting. Hanzo felt compelled to interrupt him. 

“Must you keep shooting? That gun of yours is too loud to do so discreetly.” He made a point of implying that his complaint was not the amusement McCree was deriving from the act, but the inconvenience it caused to himself and the poor innkeeper. He was surprised the omnic hadn’t come out and hit McCree around the head for it. 

“Well shoot, if you’re going to be such a poor sport about it how about you show me what you can do with that bow of yours. Bet you can’t hit it.” It was an obvious attempt at goading. They both knew Hanzo could hit the damned can. He gave McCree a sharp look, but he only responded by raising the stakes. “Bet you can’t hit it, draw, then hit it again before it reaches the ground.” 

One corner of Hanzo’s mouth twitched up into a nearly imperceptible smirk. “You ‘bet?’ That is a dangerous word, McCree.”

“Sure, Hanzo, I hear ya, but the only thing I see you shootin’ right now is the breeze.”

The sniper turned and squinted at the upright can. An easy target, and an equally easy proposition. It almost wasn’t worth humoring the idiot. But he guessed that McCree could do with a little entertainment, after being cooped up for three days with an injured leg. They both could.

He set the beer can on the ground and then effortlessly drew his bow and arrow, fired into the can on the stump, and in the blink of an eye drew back and loosed another, hitting the can in the exact same spot just a few inches off the ground. The metal surface was pretty well blasted through on both sides. With some distaste, Hanzo saw droplets of cheap Mexican beer flinging sugary-sweet onto the shafts of his newly-made arrows.

No matter--he looked back at McCree coolly only to find the cowboy had picked up Hanzo’s beer can and was stealing a sip. A huge one. Half the can by the looks of it. When he finished he nodded his head toward the can Hanzo had hit and said, “Good going, Hanzo, you done ruined that one completely. Now we gotta get another one.”

Scowling, Hanzo reached over, roughly shoved the man’s hat down over his face, and rescued his beer. “I have won your bet. You are lucky there was no wager. ”

McCree snorted, righting his hat. “And what the hell would we wager? All you have to offer is arrows and hankies you can’t even use proper like.” 

“And what do you have to offer? Bullets? Your _hat_?” Hanzo spat with distaste, not appreciating the slight. 

“Got a couple more beers.” McCree motioned towards the one in Hanzo’s hand. “Drink up, buttercup, I need that can. Want to place another bet?” 

“And what will you demand this time? That I shoot the can three times? That I shoot it progressively further into the air until each of the omnic’s eyes are filled with arrows? You are unreasonable.” Hanzo did, however, finish the beer. 

“Well, I _was_ until you started being all disagreeable. You’re cheatin’ with that bow, how about you use a real weapon for once?” 

Hanzo swallowed the last mouthful of beer and fixed McCree with an incredulous look. Part of him realized that he was just goading him again, fishing for a reaction and he probably didn’t truly mean anything against archery. But the other, much larger part of himself bristled in response. “How _dare_ you?” 

“I’m just sayin’, you’re handy when it comes to arrows and swingin’ your bow around, but I’d like to see you try to do the same with a gun.”

“I was a yakuza for many years. Of course I can fire a _gun_ ,” Hanzo huffed.

“Yeah?” McCree pulled his weapon from his holster, flipped it around, and held it out by its muzzle. “Prove it.”

Hanzo looked at the proffered gun with some surprise. He had pinned McCree as a more casual fighter than most, but even he must have some reserve over handing off his weapon for a mere shooting contest. The handle glinted temptingly in the light of the setting sun. He carefully took it from McCree’s grip and met with no reluctance.

“Make sure you don’t drop old Peacekeeper. Might get yourself shot in the foot.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes again, not even dignifying that with a response. He raised the gun in his right hand, keeping his arm straight without locking his elbow, and lined up the can in the sights. He had only fired a revolver maybe once in his life, but that was enough to have a general idea. With one flex of his finger he fired at his target.

He knew something was different when he felt the extra resistance in the trigger. Revolvers already had somewhat of a resistance, but this gun was noticeably harder to fire. As soon as he the round went off the entire gun recoiled. The force of it shook through his palm and wrist and radiated up his forearm. And as a result of the sudden kickback, the bullet completely missed its mark, embedding itself into a brick wall behind the stump about five inches above the can. He stared wide-eyed at the mark it left.

McCree tipped up the brim of his hat and whistled, “Shoot, Hanzo, I told ya. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Time to collect, I reckon--what’d we wager again?”

The sniper ignored him and observed the gun, opening the barrel, examining it one quick sweep from top to bottom. Much like some of the present-day plasma models of other well-known weapons, this one seemed to have some kind of augmentation that powered it up to be stronger. Decorative blue lights pulsed faintly, giving away the power beneath. He held up the gun, strengthened his wrist and his arm, and pulled the trigger. Again, the kickback, and only about an inch closer to his target. He fired twice more to similar results, too absorbed in his curiosity to hear McCree’s running commentary.

When the clicking of the trigger did not give way to any more shots, Hanzo was momentarily floored. He had gone through an entire round and not once come close. McCree was no doubt very proud of himself. The sound of another can opening made Hanzo twitch.

“What can ya do.” Hanzo considered pistol whipping the cowboy, lowering the gun and turning his gaze onto him. He received a condescending raise of the beer can. “Not too bad for a first try.” 

“I suppose you think you could do better with my bow.” As if it was even possible. 

“Woah, now, would that really be fair to compare? You made it seem like you’d had plenty of experience with guns, only time I’ve ever held a bow was when you went for a swim in California.” Hanzo opened his mouth to call him out, but was barely able to draw in a breath. “But yes, that is what I’m sayin’.” 

“This,” Hanzo pulled the bow from his back, handing it over with a scoff, “will be amusing.” He holstered the gun temporarily in his obi, then removed his quiver and dropped it unceremoniously in McCree’s lap. “Go ahead. As many times as you like.”

McCree rose slowly, slinging the quiver over his back. “And what’d you name this fella? I know you honorable types, there ain’t no way you didn’t name it.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Hanzo looked up at the sky and tried to think of what the name best translated to. After a moment, he begrudgingly answered, “Stormbow.”

The cowboy stopped with the bow raised and his hand halfway to the quiver. He deadpanned, “Pardon?”

“I received it as a present when I was very young,” Hanzo explained with a sigh.

“You put ‘bow’ in the name.”

“Believe me, I should have liked to change it, but when you name a weapon you can’t just change it,” Hanzo said, throwing his hands up in the air. “You cannot change the name of a friend just because you don’t like it.”

“If your friendship with your bow is that important to you, ya might be in need of friends.” 

McCree pulled himself to his feet and brought the bow up, repositioning it a few times before trying to slot the arrow. His handling was completely wrong and it gave Hanzo agita. He watched him struggle, but refused to instruct--for now. Now, McCree needed to see what it was like to place unreasonable demands. 

The first arrow was finally raised and slotted. McCree lifted the bow and pulled the arrow taut, closing one eye and squinting at the can. For a moment his concentration looked as though it might actually yield results, but then he loosed the arrow and it flew about eight feet and fell to the ground. 

“Well, shoot.” McCree grabbed another arrow, fussing with it before shooting and getting it no further than the last. “This game’s rigged.” 

“Everything depends on your form,” Hanzo told him, assuming a benevolent yet incredibly smug air. “It is difficult to explain, so I will show you.”

He put both hands on McCree’s shoulders, straightened the man’s posture, and turned his body to the proper angle. “You’re holding it sideways. Don’t you pay attention when we’re fighting?” The criticism was delivered without much fire. He made a few more adjustments. “Turn your feet a little--not that way--yes, like that. Now aim a little above the target, and try again.”

McCree loosed another arrow and missed atrociously. Hanzo pursed his lips and skittered around him again, continuing to adjust his form as he picked up arrows and shot them. He was hunched somewhere around his elbow, adjusting it minutely, when McCree declared, “Lord have mercy.” 

Hanzo wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but continued doing his part as McCree continued to miss. As well as drink. In fact, the more he drank the closer he came to shooting the can and Hanzo was genuinely unsure if that had anything to do with the alcohol or the time he had spent. 

After a while, all the shots McCree missed were starting to collect on the ground. While Hanzo was gathering them for McCree, a new arrow whizzed by and plunged into the stump, snagging his obi with it. Hanzo stared at it and gave his clothes a disbelieving tug, turning back to look at McCree. The cowboy was doubled over, laughing hard. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed as he gave his leg a hearty slap. 

“Got pretty close that time, didn’t I?” 

Hanzo carefully removed the arrow, eyeing the hole in his clothing with extreme distaste. The arrow had come fairly close to the gun; he was lucky it was no longer loaded. Otherwise it could have gone off and mortally wounded him. He walked back and thrust the arrows into McCree’s chest, taking out the revolver and laying it carefully on the stoop. He chose not to respond and instead returned to amending McCree’s form, which was getting better as time went on. The cowboy huffed, but otherwise patiently waited.

“You keep aiming at different parts of the can. If you don’t commit to one mark, all the feedback you get will be useless.” Hanzo pointed at the face of the friendly robot on the can. He was careful to lean in and line up his pointing finger with McCree’s sights. From this close proximity a wave of stench hit Hanzo’s nose and he was reminded of the unfortunate fact that McCree hadn’t showered in days and was now engaged in a sweaty activity. Marvelous. Still, he instructed faithfully, “Aim between the omnic’s eyes.”

“Shoot the friendly little tin man? That’s fucked up, Hanzo,” McCree joked, shooting a look directly over his shoulder. This close, Hanzo could see flecks of lighter and darker browns in the centers of his eyes. “Which ones, anyway? He’s got eight of ‘em.”

Hanzo pulled away with a snort. “I thought I would give you a broad target--one you might actually stand a chance of hitting. But since you insist: the top two.”

McCree took the time to line up his shot, one eye squinted closed. Hanzo considered telling him that probably wouldn’t help, but supposed everyone had their style. McCree drew in a breath and loosed the arrow. This one flew straighter and for a moment it looked as though it might hit, but then embedded itself in the stump a few inches away from the can. 

“God dammit.” McCree lowered the bow and turned, moving over to the stoop and picking up his revolver. He grabbed his bullets, shoved them in, and wheeled around to face the stump. One shot went off and he hit the omnic square between the top two eyes, knocking the can clean off the stump. “Little bastard.” 

“Why did you do that!” Hanzo demanded, raising his hands in disbelief. “You almost had it! You could have done it if you were just a few inches closer to the mark.” 

“Well, alright there, Hanzo, how about you get that close with the revolver then I’ll try again.” McCree picked up another one of the empty beer cans, only a slight waver in his step, and went to place it on the stump. He marched back to Hanzo and pushed the revolver into his hands. “Go wild.” 

They exchanged a firm stare. He wanted Hanzo to hit the can? Fine. He’d run it through five times over. It was with that determination that Hanzo took the gun, raised it up once more, and adjusted his stance. He tried strengthening his grip and the tension of his arm, even more than last time, and fired. Of course, no luck. And McCree didn’t seem to care for giving instruction.

As much as Hanzo hated to admit it, the kickback was too strong for him. And no matter what adjustments he made in where he aimed, it didn’t seem to make up for the lack. He expended two more bullets in the effort of trying, and then another two in a burst of frustration. He continued like this through another whole four rounds of ammunition, all carefully calculated and all equally failing, until finally he became fed up with his own inability to figure out the problem.

“ _Stay still_ ,” he hissed to himself in Japanese, and clamped his left hand down on his arm to hold it down. He had done this in a fit of blind and angry ignorance, but he had committed to it. He locked down both arms and fired again, only generally aiming in the direction of the omnic’s taunting beady eyes. He heard a weird cracking sound, like thick plastic being ripped apart, and then a dull impact. He lowered the gun and observed, with more than a little shock, that he had split the arrow McCree shot into the stump clean down the middle.

“Well, that’s somethin’!” McCree laughed. “Not quite what you were trying to hit, but--here.” 

McCree came closer to Hanzo, raising his hands and placing them on him as Hanzo had done before. He was much more casual about it, Hanzo had to admit, moving him around with less care but just as precise. He pressed on his shoulders, then again. Hanzo shifted around, trying to find what position he was encouraging, and McCree tisked behind him. 

“No, _relax_. You need to relax your shoulders.” Ah. Hanzo tried, and barely succeeded, ready to tense back up again at the slightest provocation. McCree wrapped his fingers around his wrist and lifted it up so that he could aim, standing behind him so close his chest brushed his back. He was too close to his ear when he spoke. “Alright, now when you shoot, hold it firm but don’t lock in place. Guide it back down after the kick.” 

Hanzo did as he was told. He was not a meek follower, but taking orders was something he could do. Something comfortable that fit like an old glove. He shot another round, and of course missed, and listened for the next instruction. He let himself be moved again, feeling himself and McCree as two parts of the same machinery. He relaxed a little more, tried again, and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled when more words washed over his skin in response.

“That’s right, relax and try again.” Hanzo’s fingers flexed on the gun before he took careful aim and fired yet again. It hit the stump close to where it was cut. Good, but not good enough. He would not be bested by this gun, nor the man behind him. 

Another shot and McCree laughed again, breath brushing over him. An odd sensation followed, something Hanzo had never felt before from another person and could not immediately identify. It was somewhat pleasant, but left tingles on his skin that bordered on oversensitivity. McCree spoke, said something, which caused the sensation to shift and Hanzo realized that the cowboy had come close enough that his beard was brushing the skin of his neck. 

He started, alarmed by the proximity, and tried to turn back to look at the other man, but the motion only brought him closer to the parts of McCree that _really should not be that close_. Warm breath tickled his ear and he froze. He just barely caught McCree’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, and he hoped that confusion was written plainly enough on his face.

The hand was on his wrist again, fingers close to his pulse. “What’s the matter? And here you almost relaxed enough. Try it again.”

Hanzo opened his mouth to tell him that he could not concentrate with him breathing down his neck, but found he was unable to form the words. This had to be some sort of test. Or perhaps McCree was teasing him. Or maybe it really was a coincidence and Hanzo’s brain was getting the better of him--or maybe that was what McCree _wanted_ him to think. He closed his mouth, breathed in, then tried again. 

“I cannot concentrate when you--” 

The sound of a slamming door cut him off, followed by the sound of harsh stomping. The omnic innkeeper rounded the corner and yelled at them from above the stoop. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” 

McCree dropped his arm, turning to the omnic with eyebrows raised. “Well shoot, we were just practicing our aim a little. Surely no intrusion on our part.” 

“I could hear you down the street! Do you have any idea whose territory this is?” 

McCree reached back and scratched the back of his neck as the omnic stormed over to the stump and started inspecting the cans on the ground. It cursed in Spanish at them, no doubt a very deliberate action since most omnics were programmed with multiple languages. Hanzo did not like its tone and liked McCree’s even less. Even though anyone hearing the shots probably wouldn’t think anything of them, it still had been a disturbance of the peace, one he had been complicit in. 

“Show’s over, I guess.” 

He gave McCree a searching look. He took the gun by the barrel and handed it back. “I suppose so,” he responded, not knowing quite what else to say. McCree returned the weapon to its holster, seeming to be no different than usual. Maybe there was no reason to get worked up. Maybe he had just misunderstood the situation.

While the innkeeper continued squawking bilingual complaints, Hanzo retrieved his arrows. Normally he wouldn’t bother catering to the omnic’s feelings, but he supposed the innkeeper could either shoot them itself or get someone else to shoot them in revenge, if it so pleased. So Hanzo made certain to apologize and assure the innkeeper that it would not hear from them for the rest of the day.

“I better not. And pick up after yourselves, for fuck’s sake,” the omnic answered shrilly. Only when it actually saw the two men start picking up beer cans did it go back inside and leave them alone.

That left McCree and Hanzo alone, arms laden with cans. The atmosphere felt somewhat more tense and silent. Hanzo could not be sure if it was just another trick of his mind. They found a trash can near the stoop and carelessly tossed out the garbage.

“Well, that was a bust,” McCree observed, though he didn’t sound too broken up about it. “Neither of us hit a one of the damn things, after all that work.”

“You learned remarkably fast for your first time,” Hanzo said. “If that omnic had not shown up, perhaps you would have hit it soon enough.”

Though, maybe he should be thankful the innkeeper intercepted when it did. Before things could have gotten any more confusing.

“How magnanimous of you to say.” Again, Hanzo did not like his tone. “Same goes for you, but I guess we’ll never know how that mighta panned out.” 

No indeed. McCree lifted his hat and smoothed back his hair, looking up at the sky where the sun had just disappeared over the horizon. “Too dark to shoot now anyway. Let’s head out tomorrow and see if we can’t find any intel with our efforts combined. How’s that sound?” 

Hanzo gave a short nod and a grunt in assent. He assessed the waning light with narrowed eyes. He had no intentions to go to sleep just yet, though. Maybe he would wait until McCree was asleep. Until he had some time to think.

-

By the next morning, McCree’s leg had healed enough that he could more adequately join the manhunt. With at least four days under their belts of twiddling thumbs and trying to stick close to the area, they had long since been ready to fully throw themselves into the task. Separately they combed the city, and with the assurance that McCree could now handle himself, Hanzo could cover miles more ground in half the time. And for what McCree lacked in speed, he made up for in thoroughness.

By sometime in the mid afternoon, Hanzo had detected a generator near the outskirts of the city, giving off big fluctuations of power. He met back up with McCree, who managed to access some security cameras near that area--who knew how he did it, he seemed to have a knack for surveillance--and through the footage they saw signs of possible Talon encampments. Since they had not seen anything else during the day, they went to go check it out together.

Luckily the buildings on the outskirts were less dilapidated than the ones in the center of Dorado, so there were plenty more places to hide and many opportunities for caution. As they approached the place they had seen in the footage, they heard the sound of guns popping in the distance.

“I’m hearin’ pulse munitions out there somewhere,” McCree murmured, chewing on his cigar. “Do you hear pulse munitions?”

Hanzo raised an eyebrow and didn’t bother answering. He was less acquainted with the sound. They followed the noise and eventually, as it grew louder, they began stumbling upon spent magazines. The cowboy picked up one of them, turned it over in his hand, and showed it to his companion.

“This is Morrison’s, alright.”

Hanzo nodded in understanding. “I will go to the rooftops, and survey the situation. Follow my signals, and be careful. I’ll cover you.”

“Right.” McCree tipped his hat to him and hurried off, skirting around large buildings. Hanzo climbed to the roof of one house, following close behind and keeping track of McCree. If Morrison truly was there, most of the fire would be on the ground. The sounds of conflict were easy enough to track and Hanzo watched as McCree’s steps became more hurried, almost frantic in his attempt to find Morrison. 

They had just barely broken off from each other when they simultaneously located their target. Morrison ran through an alley, turning on his heel and firing a round of rockets into several panicked, masked individuals. The former Blackwatch leader was nowhere in sight, but through the gaps in other buildings Hanzo could see an approaching mass of several dozens of Talon operatives. Morrison’s abilities were undeniably impressive, but even he would have trouble taking them. 

As Hanzo motioned to McCree to let him know the situation, he noticed Morrison dropping to his knee. He tore a roll of cloth--possibly gauze--from a pouch and began hurriedly wrapping his leg, his heavy breathing just barely audible from where Hanzo stood. So he had been hurt. Excellent. He was a fool for going after Talon alone and Hanzo would have told him so if he weren’t busy pulling an arrow and slotting it into his bow. 

He took out the first several targets undetected, but had to back away when their line of movement changed. They circled the area where Morrison was, several snipers taking aim from between the buildings. Morrison stood, hand clamped over a bloodied spot on his leg, and lifted his rifle as the first few approached. He was able to fight them off easily enough, but the sheer number of them began to overwhelm him. 

McCree kept his back pressed against the side of a building, shooting where he could and raising subtle interference. He took out a sniper as they locked onto Morrison, then darted forward, shooting a man behind him with expert aim. Hanzo watched the moment Morrison spotted McCree, body tensing up then relaxing as he fell back into a rhythm. 

Another group was heading their way. Hanzo was acquainted with Talon enough to know that they would not send this number of people for just anyone. No doubt Morrison’s old friend was expecting them. 

As the two groups approached and began to meld somewhat into one another with a checkered pattern, Hanzo leapt across a couple more rooftops and fired a scatter arrow into the center of the clumping mob. He killed a few men, and the rest swayed in shock, folding outward away from the blast like flowers bending under a gust of wind. Some men from the front of the cluster closer to McCree and Morrison made the mistake of turning back. A show of weakness.

Hanzo fired another scatter arrow at their frontlines, killing less of them but wounding many. And more importantly, when the front men fell, the rest shoved back in a wave, whipping around to find where the shot had come from. Some of the men from the second group pushed back, others broke off and scattered, and still others shoved at the men in front of them, trying to get them to continue their advance. One of the remaining snipers spotted Hanzo and turned to intercept him, while the others foolishly continued to focus fire on McCree and Morrison. Hanzo loosed an arrow straight into the sniper’s head, and before the others could even turn and gape in shock, he adjusted his position and killed them too.

After that he jumped from the building and joined his companions on the ground, where some of the Talon thugs were recovering from their temporary confusion and were pushing forward again. As usual, McCree’s aim was impeccable, as the bright gushes of blood and falling bodies attested to. Morrison provided satisfactory backup. Some of the men who had scattered from the back of the mob came around through alleyways to try and form a pincer attack on the two men--Hanzo hooked one around the neck with his bow and cracked his head into the wall. Morrison cold-cocked another with the butt of his gun.

“Quickly, while they are still coming to their senses,” Hanzo hissed to McCree. “Let’s go!”

McCree directed a look at Morrison that Hanzo could not see, but the man nodded. At least he had some sense of self-preservation. The three headed back the way McCree had come, winding around buildings with ease despite Morrison’s injury. They made a few turns while running and found themselves in less sturdy, abandoned housing. McCree did not stop until they were a good mile away, leading them to take temporary shelter in a small two-story house. When they finally had a chance to catch their breath, he rounded on Morrison. 

“What the hell did you think you were doing?!” Hanzo had not expected such a reaction from him and stared from the sidelines with the wide-eyed expression of a startled cat. Morrison just observed through his mask, seemingly unfeeling. “Didn’t you stop to think he’d be expecting you?” 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up!” Anger was the old man’s defense. “I told you to back off!” 

“I’m tryin’ to keep you alive! Haven’t we lost enough good people to him?” The old man paced, fingers flexing around his gun. He looked like a caged animal. McCree gestured towards the ceiling, exasperated. “You can’t do this alone.” 

Hanzo opened his mouth to say something but quickly shut it. This was not a conversation he could intrude on. This was also a bad place to have such a heated debate. He stepped through a large hole in the far wall of the house and peered outside carefully. He saw nothing but the quiet street, lined with other homely dwellings.

He leaned back in and said, “I cannot tell if we’ve been followed from here. I’ll go and check the perimeter--stay alert while I’m gone. And if there is any argument left to be made, make it now.” His eyes sharpened, and he finished in a tone that brooked no disagreement, “We are all going back together.”

He climbed through the hole in the wall and darted out into the streets, then scuttled up the side of a building and disappeared. McCree and Morrison stared each other down, at a standoff. To McCree’s surprise, he was not the one who had to break the silence. 

“I’m losing it,” Morrison said gruffly, a weariness in his voice that had not been present while he was yelling at him. “I’ve lost touch with everything else, but this is the one thing I know I have to do. I can’t lose this too.” 

“We’re all losing it,” McCree shrugged. “No reason to throw yourself into a battle you can’t win for some idea of doin’ ‘what’s right.’” 

“No.” Morrison shook his head. McCree waited for him to expand on that, but it didn’t come, its meaning lost in the silence between them. He sighed and scratched his neck. 

“Look, I’m gonna be frank. Is this about me almost bein’ shot?” Morrison didn’t respond. “Because it’s really not that big of a deal. I know you’re all hung up on the fact that you can’t work with other people for shit now, and now you’re probably worryin’ that when the time comes you won’t be able to pull the trigger and someone else will die because of it, right?” 

Again, no response. McCree continued on as though Morrison had given assent. “Because I didn’t shoot neither. And I still don’t know if I can. Don’t you try and shove me out of this or take responsibility where it ain’t due.”

Morrison shifted on his feet, pulling his gun up to hold with both hands. McCree recognized a need for security when he saw it. Morrison grunted at him. “I never trusted you.” 

“Well, no shit. Of course you didn’t. And you shouldn’t have, I was a slimy bastard doin’ Gabe’s work.” Morrison’s fingers visibly twitched at the name. “I was there. In the shit. I’d reckon we’re the two who knew him best, ‘cept maybe Ana. Which is why if we’re goin’ after him, we need to communicate. Sound fair to you?” 

Morrison heaved a sigh. “And if we can’t kill him? What, we both die?” 

“No, we have each others’ backs and get the hell out of dodge while we can. Then we try again. Jesus, you really haven’t been socializin’.” 

“And your friend? I’m not risking an unrelated party.” 

“I’d reckon what he does ain’t really any of your business. ‘Sides, I’ve tried to make him leave. It won’t work.” Come hell or high water, Hanzo seemed pretty involved at this point. “Come on. Let’s start over from the beginning.” 

Morrison stared him down for a long time. McCree met the gaze of the mask, noting when his shoulders finally sank with a minimal amount of relaxation, then raised his brows when Morrison extended a hand. It was his turn to stare, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. He reached out and clasped Morrison’s hand in his own, squeezing it firmly as they shook on it. What an awkward fuck the old Commander had become. 

“Better treat that wound proper or it’ll heal like shit.”

Morrison grunted at McCree’s unsolicited advice, but dropped down to clean the wound as they waited for Hanzo to return. 

-

Soon enough Hanzo came back and, finding the two men silent--albeit extremely awkward and still at odds in body language--told them the coast was clear and that they should all get moving before they were discovered. He waited for McCree to go first out the door, and then Morrison. The old man stood his ground, distrustful as always, and refused to move. But this time Hanzo would not be swayed. The man was injured. Eventually, Morrison begrudgingly took the hint and loped off after McCree, with Hanzo bringing up the rear. He stayed close to Morrison’s shoulder, carefully keeping a lookout at all angles until they made it back to the inn.

The omnic innkeeper looked startled as they entered, dirty and bloodied and somewhat worse for wear, but it quickly relaxed and went back to a hologram projection of the local news. It must have finally gotten used to them. They returned to their room, where Morrison laid down his pulse rifle, sat down on the ground, and tried to finish tending his wounds. After a while of fumbling and grunting and refusing help he was forced to accept McCree’s assistance. His frustration made him unable to finish the job by himself. Hanzo felt a keen sense of deja vu.

The cowboy sent him to go get some more antiseptic and painkillers from the innkeeper. Luckily it had some, which it imparted to Hanzo with much less affability than last time. Shortly after, McCree finished patching up the old man, much to his somewhat embarrassed chagrin.

Hanzo dropped his bow and quiver on the floor. “Can you walk comfortably?” he asked Morrison. He had glanced at the wound just before McCree covered it with bandaging. It didn’t seem too terrible.

Morrison nodded uncomprehendingly and McCree raised a brow. Hanzo noted the cowboy wiping the back of his neck with the handkerchief Hanzo had lent him before for the nuts and seeds. “Where the hell’re you wanting to walk?” 

“We have all succeeded in not dying. Even our rogue member.” Hanzo looked over at Morrison when he said this. “I think a celebration is in order. Even a quaint one will do, to clear the air.”

McCree squinted at him for a moment, then sighed when he realized where he was going with the suggestion. “Drinkin’? At this hour of the day? The man’s just been shot, Hanzo.”

“He can move just fine. Would you rather loiter here in awkward silence for the rest of the afternoon?” Hanzo asked, to no response from either of the two men. “We must talk. We must drink. We must, as you might say, set the record straight between all of us. And since you so kindly provided the last time, it will be my treat.”

Morrison made a sound like he would rather not, giving Hanzo a long look. He was the first to stand, though, pulling himself up and reluctantly slipping the pulse rifle under the bed. Hanzo noted the small gun he kept strapped to his leg and wondered if leaving such efficient firepower behind to go to a bar rubbed him the wrong way. McCree shrugged and drew himself to his feet as well, gesturing towards Hanzo.

“Fine. Sounds good to me. Lead the way.” 

Hanzo did just that, bringing them out of the room and once more past the omnic at the front of the inn. They were cast a look of disapproval, but nothing more. The streets were a little livelier than they had been the other nights, a few people carousing around tiny restaurants. The three of them stuck out like sore thumbs, but weren’t given much attention for it. Odd folks must have been normal in these parts. 

The bar was busier than the last time they had entered but the three were able to snag a table in the corner. Hanzo was busy eyeing one of the workers in the hopes of eye contact and almost missed the motion Morrison made beside him. He caught it out of the corner of his eye and turned his head just in time to see the man removing the front of his mask. 

The face he had remembered from posters and news feed was gone. In its place was the exhausted face of an old man with far too much resting on his shoulders and in the lines under his eyes. He met Hanzo’s gaze and the archer was shocked at the lack of stony coldness he had expected. There was a kindness in them that suddenly threw new light on his past interactions with McCree. He gave Hanzo a nod of acknowledgement as their companion flagged down a reluctant server and ordered their drinks without their input. 

For a few minutes, while the waiter was gone, nobody said a word. McCree kept his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat, nibbling the cigar between his teeth. Similarly, Morrison seemed to stare into the middle distance and assess the weight of his fate. Hanzo would have laughed if the atmosphere weren’t so heavy. He was not accustomed to being the one in the best humor.

Thankfully, the waiter came back fairly quickly with their shot glasses. Whiskey again, of course. Predictably, McCree knocked his back as soon as he got it. Morrison just stared at the glass between his fingers, shrewd eyes darting up and around and at no one in particular.

Hanzo debated with himself on the best way to address him. “Soldier,” he began, remembering that he was not supposed to know the man’s real name. “I’ll be frank with you. Our first meeting was awful, I am sure you will agree.”

The man’s brows furrowed painfully, bunching up the scar running down from his forehead. He said nothing.

“I’ve been made aware that this is already a tough situation for the two of you, made tougher still by my involvement in it. Normally I would not intrude. Normally I would have no interest at all.” He heard McCree snort derisively across the table. Hanzo waved away the slight interjection and kept his attention focused on the old man. “But the circumstances are what they are. And I would like to start over, on a better foot.”

He tossed back his own shot, reminded with a searing burn in his throat of his newfound acquaintance with Dorado’s whiskey. He could almost say he enjoyed it, after all that had happened.

“We are all a team. We were a team, when we went into that building, to find and kill that man. We all failed, myself included.” He tried to make the admission sound as sincere as possible. He would not apologize, but he was also at fault. “But we are alive, and we are back together, and stronger than we were separate. I agree with McCree that we cannot do this alone. And I thank you for agreeing to fight with us again.”

Morrison stared like he didn’t quite know what to make of him. Then he lifted his glass and downed his shot, setting it down with an audible clink. “I won’t pretend to understand your reasons for getting involved with Talon, but I can appreciate a good sniper. I’ll have your backs if you’ll have mine.” 

“Now, what’s with all this seriousness? Atmosphere in here’s deader than a doornail.” McCree reached over and slapped Morrison on the back. The man grunted, but didn’t smack him away. “Morrison and I weren’t on the best of terms at our old place of employment, you could say. Heard all his dirty details from our mutual friend, and Morrison didn’t like me from the start. Did you?” 

“I thought it wasn’t the best PR to be employing criminals, no.” 

McCree laughed at that. “Y’hear that, Hanzo? Couldn’t stand dirty criminals.” 

Against his will, Hanzo felt one corner of his mouth raise. “It is hard to stand you in particular.”

“Shit, Hanzo, don’t embarrass me in front of our friend.” 

McCree downed his shot and ordered them another round. Then another. Their alliance was sealed with each passing drink. 

-

“I assemble each arrow individually! Time and effort is put into every shot even before its conception. Can you say the same for bullets?” Hanzo gestured rudely towards the two of them with his empty glass. “You cannot.” 

“All I said was that you could carry more bullets. I’m not makin’ light of archery, for chrissakes.” 

“This time, but what about the last? And the next time you will undoubtedly drag its name through the dirt.” 

Hanzo slammed the glass down with finality. Morrison had matched him drink for drink as they worked their way through the evening, but the cowboy had refused the last one and it put Hanzo in a foul mood. 

“Another!” he insisted. “You must drink another with us.” 

“Naw, that’s enough for me.” Yet again, McCree flung mud on everything Hanzo stood for. He was lucky he didn’t string him up right now. “Now, don’t look at me like that, Hanzo. I’m only stopping ‘cause you’re startin’ to be belligerent.” 

“I do not know what that means,” Hanzo snapped. “It is dishonorable of you not to match drinks with your companions. You should be deeply ashamed of yourself. To think you call yourself our companion but will not imbi-- bibe-- drink. You should leave this table. Now. Another!” 

“I’m done for the night.” Morrison’s voice cut through Hanzo’s anger and the two turned their gaze on him. He nodded towards them. “About time we left.” 

“I suppose that would be for the best,” Hanzo nodded in appreciation of Morrison’s wise and practical decision. McCree slapped his hand against the table. 

“What the hell?” 

As Morrison rose to leave the table, Hanzo shot the cowboy an unimpressed look. “You have a deficit of one drink, McCree. I expect it to be repaid someday.” He stood up, less-than-gracefully extracting himself from his seat.

McCree followed, complaining as he held onto his hat, “Can’t believe you pulled the word ‘deficit’ out of yer ass when ya can’t even say ‘imbibe.’”

The sniper rolled his eyes. The action made his head spin and he swayed a little. “Try to conceal your envy.” Despite the sarcasm, he held out a hand to help steady McCree as he pulled himself from his chair. Hanzo paid and they both met Morrison at the door to the bar. They followed him outside. Though the air was tepid, the sun had finally sunk in the sky, so it was much cooler than earlier. The crumbling city was showered in rays of evening light. Even an ugly thing could be beautiful under the right circumstances, Hanzo figured. Soon darkness would come and envelop everything.

He contemplated the old soldier’s figure in the waning light. Morrison was a man who could drink. He had a hearty stomach and very strong shoulders. And even under the influence of alcohol and injury, he still kept a steady and unwavering pace. Hanzo could appreciate such a man. Both McCree’s and his own steps were less steady as they made their way a yard or so behind. 

“You even take having fun too seriously, Hanzo,” McCree chided unwelcomely. “I can’t believe you’re holdin’ one drink over my head.” 

“It is more than just a drink, McCree, and if you had any self-respect at all then you would understand. And I am ‘having fun,’ do not accuse me without reason.” 

“See, that? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” McCree adjusted his foolish hat on top of his filthy head. “You can’t say you’re having fun while you’re scowling at someone.” 

“I can do whatever I please, whenever it pleases me to do so.” 

Morrison, who at some point had replaced the front of his mask, glanced back at them. “I’m too old for this.” 

Indeed, he was old. But it was a distinguished sort of age, one that did not take away from the squareness of his frame or the weight of his voice. McCree perhaps did not share that opinion and snorted besides Hanzo. 

“Wait, yeah, you are old. When did that happen?” 

Hanzo leaned over and elbowed McCree in the side to admonish him. In spite of this, he gave a short, sharp hum of a laugh. One that was most likely loud enough for Morrison to hear. The sound of the old soldier groaning under his breath was certainly audible as well.

The three found their way back to the inn where Morrison made quick work of retrieving his rifle. He slung it over his shoulder and gave one last nod towards them. McCree dumped himself onto the bed, spurs clinking against the floor.

“Send me something before you head out next time. We’ll make a plan. That copacetic with you?” 

Morrison grunted in affirmation and left the two of them alone, the sound of his heavy footsteps gradually fading down the hall. McCree laid back onto the bed and pulled a cigar from his duster, striking a match against the wall and lighting it somewhat delicately. He took a deep puff on it, filling the air above him with heady smoke. This seemed like some sort of victory ritual and Hanzo was not sure what to make of it. He wasn’t sure what to make of anything right now, except that the ground underneath his feet seemed only vaguely solid and was getting less so by the minute.

Without thinking any further, he also made for the bed, landing on the mattress with one leg hanging off. With markedly less grace than usual, he folded his pillow and used it to prop up his neck and head. A wave of dizziness had hit him, and he didn’t think he could go to sleep just yet. He wondered if he should check and see if his informant had contacted him yet. Where did he put the communicator again? He used the damn thing so little he had a hard time remembering. Which was probably just as well--he had no idea if he could form a competent or coherent response. Though, if the information were pertinent, maybe it would be worth trying. 

What had he asked about again? Wait, had he even gotten his shipment of arrow parts yet? Yes, he had, he remembered because McCree had been practicing with the bow earlier. They had both been practicing. For all McCree’s intentional stubbornness, he had been a very good student. And a good teacher. Before Hanzo could register it, he felt a faint phantom prickling on the back of his neck. Then it was gone, leaving him in dazed confusion.

He breathed a regretful sigh. “You would’ve made a great archer. It is a shame circumstances do not permit you to become one. As a hobby, I mean.”

“That’s high praise, Hanzo. Maybe someday I’ll have enough free time and willpower to pick it up again.” There was something smarmy about the tone, but Hanzo did not rise to the bait this time. McCree tapped his cigar against the windowsill before bringing it back to his mouth, eyes shut. “Weren’t so bad with a revolver yourself. Could be a real crackshot if your head wasn’t stuck so far up yer ass.” 

McCree chuckled to himself, seemingly pleased by the insult, or maybe mixing into an old memory. He raised his cigar, holding it over Hanzo’s chest in offering.

Hanzo looked at it blankly, initially unable to process the gesture between wondering whether he should be injured by McCree’s comment and the general haze of liquor. He accepted the cigar, careful not to drop it, and started to take a drag, then started coughing and hacking. He heard McCree make some impressed noise beside him. Preemptively, Hanzo held up a hand, and after he recovered growled, “Do _not_ start.”

“You gotta hold it in your mouth, don’t inhale.”

“That would have been convenient for you to say _before_ I began.” 

The cigar was taken from between his fingers and McCree drew it near his face, leaning a little closer as he took a drag on it, held the smoke in his mouth, then blew it out. He lifted the cigar to Hanzo again. “Like that.” 

Hanzo eyed the part of the cigar that was slightly dampened by McCree’s mouth with disdain. He took it back and this time, he did not make a fool of himself. He mimicked what he had seen, and though he was too incensed to enjoy the first puff, the next was far better. It was a lot like pipe smoking, which Hanzo was very familiar with. Again, that was something he wished had been made clear before.

He quickly let go of his frustration. This wasn’t his favored tobacco, but it was a warm, welcome reprieve, and he felt something suspiciously close to contentment. When he was younger, he used to smoke his pipe and watch the snow-white wisps gust out into the air. He would pretend he was a dragon blowing out fiery breaths. He didn’t know whether to chuckle or cringe. He did a little of both, then took another, very brief puff and handed McCree’s cigar back.

“When I was a kid,” McCree began, breaking Hanzo out of a pleasant silence. It did not disrupt him as much as it should have. “I used to buy these candy cigarettes from this creepy dude in a truck who’d come around and sell sweet stuff out of a window. I’d stand in the line and pinch money off’a unsuspecting kids to get them.” 

Hanzo watched him finish taking a drag off of the cigar, waiting for him to share the point of his story. 

“Assume they were a ploy by cigarette companies to get ‘em started young, thinking it’s cool and all. And let me tell you, that completely worked with me. I was pretty addicted in my twenties. Now I smoke these because I figure you’re probably better off smoking a cigar than ten cigarettes.”

“So I have been told. The most common method now in Japan is to use a pipe, but it was much easier and more pleasant to beg a cigarette break with an underling.” Hanzo closed his eyes and shook his head. “I cannot count how many times I was lectured for doing that, by multiple people. By the age of fourteen! They threw around many medical terms but I suspect that cigarettes made the Shimada heir look quite unbecoming. As I am sure I made the act look foolish in return.”

He held out his hand for the cigar, which was now quickly dwindling. “May I, again?”

“Aw, don’t paint yourself so dark, Hanzo.” McCree passed him the cigar, opening one eye to glance at him as he took it. “Everyone looks cool smoking a cigarette. That’s part of the appeal. Pretty ballsy of you to do it under such a watchful eye.” 

Hanzo supposed that was true. He took one final puff off of the cigar, making sure to save the last one for McCree. He exhaled through his mouth slowly, savoring the flavor of it and drifting into a pleasant haze. 

“You gonna pass that back?” McCree’s voice cut through Hanzo’s thoughts and he started a minute amount, turning and offering the end of the cigar back to him. 

McCree reached up and put his fingers around it, but instead of pulling it away he leaned in and put his mouth on the tip, taking a puff. His lips remained close to Hanzo’s fingers, touching them once as he finished it off. When he pulled back the smoke brushed over the back of his hand. Shock bloomed in the pit of Hanzo’s stomach, initially slow to unfurl, but not cold. The gray tendrils felt as solid as fingers against his skin. He knew it showed on his face, could feel the minute change in expression, and he couldn’t help but watch the last of the smoke leave McCree’s mouth. The cowboy gripped the cigar, met his eyes with a knowing look, and then turned to find an ashtray.

As soon as he did, Hanzo quickly turned his gaze to the ceiling, searching it with frantic eyes. Despite being drunk he had retained a few scraps of clarity. And McCree, he--he had--was this just another cultural difference? Certainly not one he had ever heard about. And he paid attention to his instruction, the Shimada family depended on his ability to work with people from other countries, including Americans. He briefly recalled a lesson he was given by his father, specifically on conduct between men, and he had said something about Europeans kissing each other in greeting, but nothing about such atrocious conduct as this. If he remembered correctly.

That disgusting mouth had been on his hand. Bad breath augmented by whiskey and smoke. His lips had been dry, wet with just the slightest hint of moisture from the cigar. Head tilted forward, neck craned, eyes half-closed--Hanzo couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it had happened, that he was still thinking about it, it meant nothing. It meant nothing. They were drunk, it was just more convenient, it was, something. He was going to stop thinking about it. There. Done. Except it wasn’t, it just thrummed in the back of his subconscious as he spent all his effort deliriously counting cracks in the ceiling. A task which he actually became legitimately embroiled in, and wholeheartedly distracted him while McCree stubbed out the cigar.

He was not exactly sure when McCree got up from the bed, but he was aware of the light turning off and the return of the man’s large frame, this time without his duster. He drank some water from a bottle on the windowsill and exhaled at the end loudly enough for Hanzo to be broken out of his dazed state. It wasn’t long before McCree was moving onto his side, back pressed against Hanzo’s arm in the cramped space. 

The deep breathing that soon started up beside him did nothing to help him out of his mind, causing the excuses he was still trying to form to become further disjointed. He remained tense, prepared to defend himself from some unknown interrogator, until McCree’s breathing completely evened out. Hanzo allowed himself to relax just the smallest amount, inviting a wave of exhaustion to sweep through him. He shut his eyes, resting on the unsteady feeling, alcohol and shock causing further ripples of tiredness. He finally sank into sleep, and it was as restless and uneasy as being awake had been. 

He woke once at the sound of McCree mumbling something irritatedly in his sleep. Hanzo opened his eyes and turned his head to glance at McCree in confusion. All he saw was the back of McCree’s head, hair matted against his pillow. The heat from his back had kept the left half of Hanzo’s body warm and cozy. Hanzo didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t know why he was still here. He let the warmth drag him back under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Forgot to add this earlier, but for anyone who's interested, clownsick and another friend of mine, Moon Flesh, are writing a really cool Junkrat/Roadhog life-partners fic called "Bucket List." They've already got two chapters. You can find it by clicking on clownsick's username, or you can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156651/chapters/27587172
> 
> Please give it a read! I've had the privilege of watching it come together bit by bit, and I really love what I see. Especially how they handle Roadhog's P.O.V. I'm sure you won't be disappointed. And as always, thank you for reading!
> 
> \- Jess


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Been a while since we last updated. One of us has crazy hours at a new job, and the other is finishing up a semester, so things have been kind of hectic. We're doing our best! Thank you for being patient. The boys have been in Dorado for a long time, but a change is coming soon. We've split up our plans for this fic into approximately three phases, and we're nearing the end of phase one! Phase two is where shit's going to really pick up, but there's something nice in store at the end of phase one for all of you who have kindly supported us through these first nine chapters of torturously-slow burn. <3
> 
> Thanks as always for all of your support. We have really loved hearing from all of you in the comments. Please keep posting your feedback and questions! They help us out a lot.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just lay off for five seconds, I’m tryin’ to read this here GPS.” 

“Have you completely lost the ability to multitask?” Hanzo’s sharp response pierced through McCree’s hangover. “Or do you simply not want to stand behind what you’ve said?” 

Hanzo had been like this since they left the inn. McCree accidentally woke him up from a restless sleep trying to get to the bathroom and the archer had been in a state ever since. He’d been lying stiff as a board, too, so McCree figured neither of them got much rest. Probably had something to do with his behavior the night before. Doing that thing with the cigar had probably not been the wisest course of action. Hanzo was more of a nag than ever. 

“All I said was that he doesn’t have sufficient intelligence on Talon, and that his visor looks like a Tonka toy.” 

“Efficiency is an issue, yes, but I do not see the need to insult the man’s equipment. I would dare say he has done better than us in moving this operation along,” Hanzo insisted. McCree briefly glanced up at him and saw some measure of steadfast resolution glimmering behind the purple-rimmed, groggy fatigue. “You doubt your own ally’s capability?”

“Jesus Christ, Hanzo. That’s not what I’m sayin’.” McCree shook his head as they reached their destination, entering a shitty market that was probably off the radar enough to keep them out of trouble. McCree headed towards the canned goods. He crouched down, looking uncomprehendingly at the Spanish. He relied on the pictures to get him through. “Morrison’s a capable man. I’m just sayin’ we’re SOL down here. Ain’t that what you’ve been tellin’ me this whole time?” 

Hanzo probably wouldn’t know who Jesus Christ was if he came down on a staircase of clouds and personally slapped him. The incredulous look he gave McCree implied as much.

“And you called me the grim one,” Hanzo scoffed, stalking off to a nearby aisle to grab more of whatever health-foods bullshit he would inevitably force on McCree later. McCree thought that was the end of it, but only a minute later he was back and still talking. “The odds are stacked against us but they are much better than they were before. That is thanks to having another member.”

McCree moved down the selection of canned goods, hoping in vain that the archer wouldn’t follow him. No such luck.

“The former head of Overwatch, no less! A detestable title, but--” He paused, wrinkling his nose at a can of beans that McCree pulled out. “Really, what complaint have you? The visor is certainly not standard, but I have seen many similarly built.”

This must be another one of those Japanese things--the major concern with a warrior’s … equipment. McCree couldn’t find another explanation for the asinine fixation on a dumb comment about Morrison’s stupid Hasbro visor.

“Look, can you just forget I said anything? I don’t mean nothin’ by it, I’m just raggin’ on the old man.” McCree shook his head, gathering several cans of the beans in his mechanical arm partially for nutrition, partially to spite Hanzo. “And you’re over here tellin’ me his shit’s shinier than ours. What gives? I thought you didn’t like him.” 

He didn’t know why in one breath he was telling Hanzo to lay off and in the next egging him on, but it must be doing something for him on some level. 

“I can respect a useful ally. Besides, at least he seems to _shower_ ,” Hanzo bit out, one eyebrow lifting. McCree could only guess he was the lucky recipient of this derogatory comment.

“Well, by that rubric we’re both ugly ducklings.” McCree raised an eyebrow of his own. “When was the last time you washed, Hanzo? And I don’t mean stood under a waterfall and meditated, I mean soap and water?”

Hanzo began ignoring him, looking haughtily at some peppers. McCree scoffed and started down another aisle. 

A vibration came from his pocket. He pulled out his tablet, quickly locating a new message from Morrison. He waved Hanzo over and once he’d come close, spoke in a quiet voice. “Morrison’s got intel on the next shipment Talon’s picking up. Intercepted something on the radio chatter--tomorrow night, then they’re out of here.” 

McCree looked up at Hanzo, searching his expression. “Looks like tomorrow’s our last chance.” 

The archer’s eyes sharpened, all business now. He nodded. “Then we will make it count.”

As they took their purchases up to the counter, McCree spied a bag of beef jerky nestled and hidden in the crook of Hanzo’s arm. He said nothing.

-

“You sure he’s in there?” McCree knelt closer to Morrison, peering through the slats of the wall they had partially taken apart to look into the warehouse. It reminded McCree of when he’d been a kid, hustling not-so-honest businessmen in backwater Mississippi. At their back, Hanzo kept careful watch for an ambush.

“Oh, he’s in there.” Morrison’s voice was gruff and heavy with seriousness. McCree had half expected him to fuck off and run in alone, but so far he’d been working with them to figure out the floor plans. 

The plan was to get Morrison close enough to land a fatal shot. An arrow to the neck hadn’t killed Reyes, but a few close-range shots to the heart might. If the son of a bitch still had a heart. The whole operation felt more like an experiment than a final confrontation.

McCree wasn’t sure if they could get him close enough--the warehouse was open and desolate. He had no doubt that Reyes chose this spot specifically to make it easy to find Morrison. And McCree, too. This fight had become quite the game of cat and mouse. 

Morrison threw his gun over his shoulder and started heading for their designated entrance. McCree followed, watching his back with a furrowed brow. He turned to nod at Hanzo, pulling his gun from its holster. 

When they stepped in, they found the warehouse practically bare except for some spare crates and boxes positioned haphazardly across the floor. Fortunately, a stack of three was near their entry point, and they took cover behind it.

They peered out carefully to survey the situation. A few goons loaded cargo onto a huge transport while two figures supervised nearby. One of them was unmistakably Reyes. The other was a small woman rigged up with electronics in a pack on her spine, sitting on a crate and flipping through screens. They seemed to be having some sort of argument.

Well, shit. There weren’t supposed to be two of them. The radio transmissions hadn’t said anything about that.

The sniper huddled in close, shoulder pressed against McCree’s, struggling to see past them without giving away their position.

“They only brought four men with them. Maybe five. They are on high alert now, but if they broke formation, I could draw them off and quickly dispose of them.” He turned to McCree. “If you two could keep from dying until I got back, I could help take care of the woman too. What do you think?”

McCree chewed the inside of his mouth. It was a gamble. They had no idea how powerful this woman was. If her companion was any indication, she definitely wasn’t weak.

Morrison decided for him. He rested the butt of his pulse rifle on the ground and spoke in a gruff whisper, “Then we wait.”

“I will get into position,” Hanzo affirmed. He swiftly darted back outside, scuttling away into the darkness. The little bastard was silent as death, he’d give him that.

That left McCree sharing breathing space with the old man as both of them watched the shipment progress. While the goons carefully loaded up the vehicle, covering each other’s backs with perfect precision, Reyes paced the circumference of the transport. His cloak scraped the ground with every step. After a few chiding words in Spanish from the young woman, Reyes fell to lurking around the front of the vehicle. Head on the swivel. McCree could almost hear his angry breaths beneath the mask. Morrison matched him, a growl crawling out from his heaving chest.

McCree touched two fingers to the old man’s arm, checking him. Seemed to bring him somewhat back to reality, at least long enough to ease his breathing.

From their angle it was hard to see the exact positions of each agent. And after about twenty minutes of not knowing what was going on, being unable to see properly, and with no action from Hanzo, even McCree was starting to get antsy. Morrison seemed ready to bust in at any minute.

Then, a shrieking whistle. One goon went down, his falling corpse obscured by the back of the transport. All attention whipped to a corner of the warehouse, and only a moment later Hanzo was falling through the warehouse, nocking and shooting an arrow in midair. Shrapnel scattered from the impact in streaks of blue light, pushing two of the men back and catching another in the throat. 

Hanzo landed on a box just as the unknown woman raised a hand and passed it over her face. Light crackled over her body and she disappeared completely from view. With a grimace, Hanzo raised his bow, aimed at nothingness, and fired. The arrow whizzed through empty space and then snagged through a piece of her clothing, bringing her entire form back into visibility. It passed harmlessly through, embedding itself in the ground near Reyes’ feet. The woman lifted her gun and fired a spray of bullets in Hanzo’s direction, but he had already slipped out the back door of the warehouse, followed by the remaining agents.

The woman jogged over to the vehicle. “We’ve got enough,” she snapped. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

“Not yet,” Reyes snarled. He pulled his guns, stalking around the warehouse as the woman entered the transport.

Morrison’s breathing sped up again and McCree eyed him uncertainly. “Easy, now.” 

The old man wasn’t having it. He pushed past McCree and headed into the open space of the warehouse, gun raised. The confrontation had been inevitable, but when Morrison and Reyes finally came face to face McCree felt his stomach drop. Someone was getting shot. And it was McCree’s job to make sure that someone wasn’t Morrison. While Reyes’ attention was locked onto Morrison, McCree crept around the opposite side of the stack of crates as far as he could.

“ _Jack_ ,” Reyes hissed out from behind the mask. He sounded gratified, pleased by his presence as if it confirmed some universal truth. He raised his guns, pointing them directly at Morrison. “I knew you couldn’t stay away. How long have you been skulking around Dorado, trying to find me?” 

“Enough,” Morrison snapped gruffly. “We end this here.” 

“Oh, of course, Jack. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He took a few steps forward, tilting his head. “Look what’s become of you. Run down and impotent. It was inevitable, really.” 

McCree saw Morrison’s finger tighten on the trigger, but he didn’t pull it. The moment drew out, stretching infinitely in front of all of them and Reaper began to laugh. He wasn’t going to do it. McCree exhaled sharply. Where the hell was Hanzo? 

He glanced to the side and saw the archer returning with great confusion on his face. Shit, there was no time to formulate a plan. One last look at Morrison confirmed he was frozen in place.

McCree cursed sharply under his breath. This was why he came. 

He pulled himself from behind the crate, taking careful aim. Reyes’ head turned sharply and he started to hiss something at him when McCree took the shot. The bullet lodged in his chest and he staggered back, roaring furiously. He shifted back and forth into smoke as he fell against the side of the transport. The vehicle’s engine came to life beneath his body.

The woman jumped out of the transport and grabbed Reyes, dragging him inside by his arm. 

“We need to _move_!” she snapped, avoiding an elbow as he struggled to get back onto the warehouse floor. 

Still Morrison stood there--whether in shock or remembrance, McCree couldn’t tell. He needed to get in there and extract the old man, but every muscle suddenly felt as heavy as lead. He watched Hanzo tuck and roll into the warehouse just as Reyes pointed his gun at Morrison with an anguished cry. Hanzo drew back and shot the gun out of his hand just as it went off, pellets scattering. The woman shouted something else unintelligible and threw Reaper into the passenger’s side of the car, then climbed in and took the wheel.

Hanzo grabbed Morrison and practically dragged him out of the warehouse. The old man’s gaze remained on the transport as it hooked around in an arc and sped towards the closed shutter of the warehouse. It crashed right through with a monstrous, clanging screech, and wheeled out onto the streets.

Morrison now began to resist, pulling against Hanzo’s grip. It took all of the sniper’s effort to restrain him. He was nearly lifted off the ground in the process.

Hanzo urged him through gritted teeth, “We must go! We do not know if they will send backup--”

“He’s getting away!” Morrison shouted, throat raw with gravel. As if they couldn’t all see that.

“Morrison!” McCree shouted, striding over with a faltering gait. His entire gut had bottomed out, taking his legs with it. “Hanzo’s right. We’re leaving!” 

Morrison wheeled around to face him. He jerked his gun at him. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

“Obviously I was thinking more than you were! You had a clear shot but you didn’t take it. He wasn’t going to hesitate and you know it.” 

“That--” 

“Let’s get _out of here_!” McCree insisted desperately, leaving no room for argument.

He felt his stomach roll and thought he might puke. He’d already fought Reyes once--he shouldn’t have this much of a reaction. He gave Morrison’s shoulder a rough shove, which he immediately returned. Still, it made the old man start walking. They got the fuck out of dodge, McCree throwing a look at the warehouse over his shoulder. He just barely saw the lights on the transport flashing between far-off buildings as it sped away.

-

Not long after they escaped the area, Morrison broke off from the two of them. He was pissed, that was understandable, but McCree had saved his ass and he knew it. Even if Reyes--Reaper--hadn’t been waiting for him, he didn’t have the guts to take him down alone. Morrison was mad at himself.

As McCree watched him disappear into the streets he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever see him again after this. He wondered what would become of him. 

Once Morrison was out of sight McCree sighed and lifted his hat, running a hand through his hair. “God _dammit_ , Hanzo.” 

The archer offered nothing except an uneasy look. They began to walk again, a heavy weight settling over McCree. 

Hanzo checked their sixes and kept an eye on the skies, the surrounding buildings, and presumably every cat taking an inopportune shit in the surrounding alleyways. He turned to McCree and suggested, “We should keep moving and make a circuit through the rundown district. To ensure no one is following us.”

The cowboy didn’t even grunt in response. He just followed Hanzo as he snaked through the neighborhood, path marked by the fluttering of his yellow hair tie. Every building looked the same, both the crumbled and intact ones. He couldn’t tell how long they had been walking. Eventually they came to a stop in the middle of a narrow street, flanked by decrepit stores that were, surprisingly, still open. Hanzo glanced around the area and then back at McCree.

“I think we are safe. If we cut through this way, the inn is only about ten minutes from here. We should still move swiftly just in case--”

The sniper was gesturing with an arm to who cared where off in the distance. McCree wasn’t paying attention to him. He was more preoccupied with what he saw behind Hanzo.

A liquor store, with its sign still on.

“Hold up.” Despite Hanzo’s wide eyed look of protest he walked past him, making his way to the store. The second he was through the door he got his hands on a few bottles of rum, and had paid for them before Hanzo could even cross the threshold. He thrust two of the bottles into Hanzo’s hands. He cut off a protest with a sharp, “Don’t drop these.” 

His grim demeanor was enough to shut Hanzo up and they left with several bottles of rotgut. As they made their way down the street, he did attempt an argument. “If anyone was following us, we will be easy to track now.” 

“Then they’re welcome to shoot me down. Sorry you’ll get caught in the crossfire, but this is somethin’ I have to do.” 

He shot Hanzo a challenging stare, expecting to find the usual disapproval. He did, but it was meted by something like concern. Let him think what he wanted. The journey back to the inn was permeated with silence.

They trudged to their room, and as soon as McCree got his duster and hat off he cracked open one of the bottles. He took a quick drink to test it. Yup, still awful, in just the right way.

He noticed Hanzo side-eyeing him as he set the bottles down on the floor near the bed. “What’re you lookin' at?”

“Is this really the best time? At least at the bar--”

“Like you said. Can’t have them findin' us,” McCree answered. He gestured to the door. “Do me a favor and go ask the innkeeper for some glasses.”

The sniper watched him take another swig from the bottle, then left to do as he was told. He came back with some glasses that were covered in hard water stains. Oh well. Could just drink from the bottle after the first glass or two.

To think, just a night ago they had been drinking in high spirits with Morrison. Morrison, who was now god knew where doing who knew what. Probably beating himself up over what had happened--hadn’t happened. McCree shook his head, pouring himself a drink. After a moment of thought, he poured one for Hanzo as well. Seemed polite. 

“Mission failed,” he finally grunted out. “What a fuckin’ kick in the pants.” 

McCree dumped himself onto the bed and Hanzo sat down beside him, watching him uncertainly. He took a sip of the rum and grimaced. McCree hadn’t heard him voicing any suggestions when they were at the store. 

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Hanzo did not respond, so McCree assumed he had. “Shot the bastard right in the heart. And you shot him through the damn neck. There’s no way that fucker’s dead.” 

The man’s eyes flicked to the floor. For a terrifying moment, he seemed in doubt, and that sent McCree’s stomach tumbling again. But then Hanzo looked back up and responded with great composure, “Likely not. When he aimed at Morrison, his hand did not shake.”

He studied the glass and then, out of obligation, tossed it back. He suffered it with the grace of a true martyr. “I felt certain it was fatal, until he turned to smoke again. Now we can be certain that normal means won’t kill him.”

Again, McCree did him the courtesy of filling up his glass. He refused to meet the archer’s eyes, but he could feel them even as he sat back and continued drinking.

“Morrison wasn’t going to take the shot. I sure as hell did.” He tossed his drink back and grimaced. Damn, that was nasty. “Maybe the only reason I shot was because I knew he wouldn’t die. What the hell then?” 

This was fucked up. He knew Reyes deserved whatever he got. For over ten years he had consciously made the same bad choices over and over that led him to become Reaper. McCree had been present for a good deal of them. But it didn’t feel good shooting someone who had once been a mentor. In some twisted way he had looked up to Reyes. 

But he knew the man was fucked up. He knew he wasn’t going to stop or change. He hated the feeling that there was something deep inside him still waiting for Reyes. Every time he tried to squash the feeling down, a kernel of it remained. But that was what men like Reyes did. Every one he’d met remained somewhere inside him with that nagging feeling of ‘what if’. 

McCree bowed his head slightly. “There might never be an end to this.” 

Neither of them said anything to dispute the claim. They had no idea what Reyes had become. Not even Morrison knew. In the age of omnic terrorism, where metal husks could come alive and think and feel, immortality might be just a hop and a skip away. Maybe Reyes had reached it. McCree didn’t know how to feel about that. Just felt awful, and he couldn’t tell in which direction.

A hand clasped his knee. He looked up in surprise. Hanzo had leaned toward him, looking sufficiently stiff and awkward as always. Uncertainty and a little bit of embarrassment painted his stern features.

The hand on McCree’s knee squeezed firmly. “You did what you had to do. This may not be the end, but it is over for now.”

That was all Hanzo could seem to come up with. He abandoned words in favor of pinning McCree with an unwavering stare that was full of a lot of things McCree couldn’t discern. 

“Maybe so.” McCree eyed Hanzo, taking his efforts with some measure of gratefulness. For whatever reason, he was trying very hard and McCree appreciated it. He sighed, reaching down to pour them more drinks without disrupting the hand on his knee. “Might just be right about that. Might get murdered in our sleep. You never know.” 

The two drank in silence for a while, McCree contemplating the night’s failure. Something came to mind that he couldn’t quite get out of his head. It rose in his chest and without thinking, he began to talk. 

“When I first joined up with them, Reyes monopolized the hell out of my time. Always had me runnin' all over the place. Grunt work, really. The first time we had a conversation that wasn’t him snappin' at me was about two weeks after I got there. Overwatch had this nice little shootin' range. Found him out there while I was tryin' to finish up some stupid job he gave me that he could have done his damn self. Tried to talk to him about it and he told me to shut the hell up, that while we were out there if we weren’t talkin' guns, he’d shoot me. 

“Still not sure if he meant it. Didn’t know what the hell to say so I just watched him. Eventually he handed it off to me. Don’t know if you’ve ever shot a rifle, but I hadn’t. Hefty things, got quite the kick to them. Couldn’t handle it right the first couple times. Reyes got behind me and showed me how to hold myself. Never been that manhandled in my life, let me tell you.” 

McCree paused, remembering the moment with a dead weight of humor in his chest. Reyes had smacked him upside the head at one point when he’d made a comment. The ass. 

“He taught me things. Not always useful stuff, not always things I wanted to learn, but he pushed me to be better at what I did. Never had one of those before him, not really. And I shot him in the chest.”

The hand on his knee, lax and forgotten temporarily by the both of them, tightened instinctively. Hanzo was leaning toward him again, drink nearly sloshing out of his cup. A hint of alarm lurked behind the usual permanent scowl.

“A mentor is a precious person to be revered, second only to family. But that man--whatever he is now, he is not your mentor. He would have killed you in cold blood.” He sat back in frustration and swallowed the rest of his rum. “You do not owe him anything.”

He paused in his quiet tirade and stared into his cup. His brows furrowed and he calmed down. “Though I suppose that does not wipe away the feeling.”

McCree felt the exhaustion weigh at his chest along with guilt. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

He wasn’t even sure what the guilt was for, but it was there--and had been there for a long time. It had to do with a lot more than just Reyes, so he let it sit there and fester while he drank down his rum. Having it aired a little was better than nothing. 

The supply of alcohol diminished quicker than he’d expected and McCree stopped counting the drinks. At one point he must have leaned against Hanzo, because he became aware of the archer’s shoulder pressed into his own. When he did speak it was slurred and he felt himself drop into an unpleasant drunkenness. He expected Hanzo to get tired of the pitiful display, but he hadn’t up and left yet.

About a bottle and a half of rum remained, and McCree had just placed a bet with himself that he could chug the whole of the unopened bottle when Hanzo took the half-empty one from him.

“This is enough for one night,” Hanzo declared gruffly.

The cowboy opened his mouth to argue that he had designs on the rest of that rum but the sound that came out was garbled and thick.

“If you keep drinking, you’ll be incoherent tomorrow,” the sniper persisted. He reached out and grasped the cup in McCree’s hand, giving it a tug. He let out a huff when he was met with resistance. “Come on.”

McCree figured if he held on long enough he might be able to get a rise out of the guy. While he entertained the thought, Hanzo weaseled the cup out of his hands and returned both their glasses and all the rum bottles to a corner of the room where McCree couldn’t easily reach them. When he came back to the bed McCree was half-slumped over on the mattress.

Hanzo helped straighten him, laying him on his side, then climbed into bed next to him. McCree felt like they exchanged words at some point, but for the life of him couldn’t recall what they’d said a moment after. He drifted off to an uneasy sleep, still far too close to the events of that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jess here! Hope you enjoyed our second encounter with Reaper. We've got part of the next chapter done and will hopefully be ready to update again real soon. Thanks for sticking with us.
> 
> I'm here to shamelessly plug a small drawing I did for our fic! I haven't had a lot of time to do art these past couple months, but I finally had some time, and I'm happy with the result. It's an illustration based off the scene from Chapter 7 when Hanzo comes back to rescue McCree. I call it an "illustration" in the loosest of terms because it's mainly just their faces. You can see it here: http://jessenosabaku.tumblr.com/post/167480108387/i-should-have-come-back-sooner-tried-to-draw
> 
> I really hope you guys like it. Clownsick is an artist too--I'm trying on and off to get them to draw something, but they have less time than I do right now. Maybe someday. I might try drawing more scenes from this fic if I have the time, so if you have a favorite moment that you want to see, my ask box is always open! On the note of ask boxes, I have my submission box open too, so please please please send me your McHanzo content! If you have a fic, or you do fanart of McHanzo, or if you do anything else Overwatch please send it to me. I love seeing what everyone brings to the fandom.
> 
> \- J


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back with another update!! It's been a long time. We're real jazzed for you guys to see this one. We hope the little intimate scene in this chapter whets your whistle for what's to come, and keeps you strong while you're fording the slow burn.
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> WARNING: There's an intimate scene in here that is dubcon because both McCree and Hanzo are drunk, Hanzo's sexuality is suppressed, and McCree backs off when he meets resistance but does not stop completely. There's no sex. The emotional implications of this scene are not immediately addressed, but will be at some point in the future. PLEASE be aware going into the scene, and scroll past it or leave the story entirely if you feel too uncomfortable. We won't get mad. Always put your own comfort first. Thank you!

Waking up with a hangover was starting to feel like part of the daily routine. The next morning when Hanzo opened his eyes, seeing the world through warped glass, he found it easier to pull himself into an upright position. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window. Mid afternoon. They had slept far longer than what was safe. And this was the first time they’d done so two nights in a row.  
He refused to look back at McCree’s sleeping figure. Loud snores drifted to his ears in a lazy ambush on his thoughts. Last night was the worst McCree had ever been. Worse even than when Reyes almost killed him. Hanzo had been there with him, done all he could, but had no idea if his efforts had eased the pain. From the quickened pace of drinking, perhaps not.

Hanzo scrubbed a hand over his face. He had no idea why he was doing this. After the incident with the cigar he had promised himself he would keep his distance. The minute McCree began to shut down he immediately reneged on that resolution. He felt he had conducted himself appropriately, though. The emotions were necessary to deal with. That was part of the messy business of being comrades.  
Even after years of propping up members of the Shimada, Hanzo had no idea how to inspire comfort where there was despair. When he had been a leader, it just happened. His men had faith in his image and drank in every word. McCree was different. He was not an underling.

They had to figure out their next course of action soon. Reyes could not be killed by normal means. Maybe if they shot him directly in the head he would die--they hadn’t tried that yet. But that was unlikely, and they had limited attempts on the man’s life. Eventually he would come to destroy both McCree and Morrison. As long as Hanzo drew breath he’d never succeed.

He cast a glance back at McCree’s dozing face. His beard hair stuck out in all directions, mashed against the pillow. Lines of tension fractured his forehead and cheeks. Best give him a little more time to sleep. Waking life would likely be unpleasant.

Hanzo left to go get more painkillers from the innkeeper. Seemed the omnic had similarly come to accept him and McCree as routine, since it casually gave Hanzo a few pills and, with hand paused above its personal holopad, noted, “You two sure like to party, huh? Be careful with all the drinking. Bad part of town, and been a lot of trouble recently.”

“I am sure we will be fine,” Hanzo answered, looking quizzically at the robot. Just a few days ago it had been screaming at them about shooting on its property.

“O-kay,” the omnic shrugged, turning back to its news feed. “Just don’t get your money stolen. You’ve got quite the bill to pay.”

The sniper returned to the room and saved McCree’s pills in one of the empty glasses from the night before. He then sat down on the floor in front of the window to stretch and do some meditation. He sat there in silence for almost an hour, vacillating between mindful thoughts and listening to McCree’s snoring.

The sound of McCree’s phone going off roused them both. Hanzo shot into awareness, looking over at the bed. The muffled ringing mixed with McCree’s resistant sleepy groans. He continued to grunt in acknowledgment of the call but made no move to get up. Hanzo knelt over the bed and shook him by the shoulder until he opened one foggy eye.

“Your phone,” the archer pointed out dryly.

McCree groaned and hauled himself to the edge of the bed, blearily grabbing the device and bringing it close to his face. He squinted at it for a while, reading a message. Shortly after he let the phone drop onto the bed and buried his face in the shitty pillow. He remained like that for a few moments before grunting out just loud enough to be heard. 

“Talon’s officially moved on. The old man’s movin’ out and advises us to do the same.” 

That was very unfortunate news. Dorado had provided them a convenient base they could launch attacks from. The next place they caught wind of could be across the damn world. Hanzo watched McCree gravely as he sat up and gingerly drank some water. He met his gaze and made a half hearted cheers motion with the cup.

Hanzo scoffed. Even after all they had been through together Morrison still insisted on operating alone. He scratched his chin, idly scanning the room. It baffled him to think of how long they had been here, and that now they must leave. He had almost become accustomed to Dorado.

“Does he have any leads on where to go next?” he asked.

“If he does he’s keepin’ ‘em secret,” McCree muttered into his glass. “At least we got his number.”

Hanzo rested his chin on his hand, thinking. Eventually he suggested, “It might be good to get out of Mexico entirely. Perhaps we could ... appropriate our own truck and go back over the border.”

“That’s always an option. I’m not ridin’ in the back again, if we jack a car we’re gonna be the masters of our own destiny.” McCree pulled himself up with great reluctance and rubbed his hand over his face before downing the rest of the water. He set the cup aside with a deep grumble. “And I still have to pay that guy, for Chrissakes.” 

That was very true and Hanzo did not have the means to properly compensate the innkeeper. He would if they had access to a place where he could pull money, but paying was McCree’s responsibility. He had dealt with their lodging until now. Hanzo followed him as he made his way down to the front where the innkeeper sat, watching soap operas on a holoscreen. 

McCree proceeded to haggle with the omnic for the next fifteen minutes despite the base price that had been set when they’d first walked in the door. Incredibly enough, he managed to reduce the cost quite a bit before the robot started throwing pens at him. He paid up, pulling the money from some unmentionable place in that foul duster of his. After that he headed out, motioning for Hanzo to follow him. 

They were off to find a car. 

-

Most citizens of Dorado were smart enough not to leave their cars out on the street. Hanzo did not realize just how many garages there were in the city until they had to find a car. Even some of the most dilapidated housing still had a garage with a firm door, locking mechanisms, and extra security measures.

It took them until the sun was starting to turn the sky orange before they found the one unlucky son of a bitch who had left their car parked a few blocks away from the crumbling district. In their technology-driven world, not much rusted anymore--especially not cars, which were now almost exclusively made with a chassis of plastics and polymers. However, cars that were a few decades old were still easily identifiable. They would literally warp. And the car Hanzo and McCree found looked like its front had been through a very small twister.

Turned out McCree had at least a little experience in mechanics. Once they got the door open, he wired the car and did a few preliminary checks, and gave Hanzo a thumbs-up from the driver’s side.  
The sniper’s lip curled with slight distaste. He supposed that as long as the car worked, nothing else mattered. It was better than the ugly, boiling truck they had ridden into Dorado. He climbed into the passenger’s side and they were off, puttering down a backroad in the direction of the inn.

“Question is where we’re gonna park this sucker,” McCree said, leaning one arm on the door while he drove.

“There is a small area with a few trees near the backside of the inn. It’s shadowed by a few abandoned shops. We could hide it there for the night.”

“Think I know the one you’re talkin’ about,” McCree confirmed, nodding to himself. He changed course to approach the area from a more inconspicuous direction. Once they got close, he piped up again, “What’re we doin’ about dinner? Got all them beans but maybe we should save ‘em for the road. Unless you were keen on ‘em.”

Hanzo caught what he thought was a smirk out of the corner of his eye. He was preparing to tell McCree exactly where he could stick all his beans when he felt something buzz in his pocket. Confused, he pulled out his communicator, and just barely saw in the scrambled feed that he had received a message. McCree looked over curiously but said nothing.

The message was from Hanzo’s informant. The introduction was a cursory respectful address, nauseating in its reminder of Hanzo’s former authority, and an assurance that his information was collected and ready for view. Oddly enough, however, that information was not attached to the message like it normally would be. Hanzo frowned and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the last paragraph:

_I regret to inform you that I cannot attach my intel to this message. You must come to Japan and receive it in person. In the last two weeks, the Shimada have fractured even further. Other groups have taken advantage of our weakness. Please come back and assist us. A few covert assassinations could turn the tides in our favor. I hate to demand a trade for what I promised would be free, but you are needed. The Shimada cannot die out now. Not yet. I await your response--let me know immediately if you require any assistance._

He stared in disbelief at the holographic display. All thoughts fled from his mind. He must have sat there thunderstruck for a while because McCree eventually asked, “Something wrong?”

“I’ve just been contacted by my informant. An old friend who belongs to what’s left of the Shimada.” Hanzo took a deep breath, still struggling to process the message. “He has asked me to come back to Japan. To defend them.”

“Huh.” McCree stared out at the road, processing what he’d said. He made a fairly sharp turn onto the street leading to the inn. “Can you get back there in time? Japan’s a fair piece away from here.” 

That was undeniable. But their mission here had not been completed either. McCree piped up again, apparently feeling quite benevolent today. “If you need transport I can take you where you need to go. Least I can do.”

Hanzo turned to look out the window, slowly rubbing a hand over his mouth. He knew his mind should be racing--and it was--but the sudden emptiness of his insides distracted him. His eyes darted over the ruined landscape, trying to summon a word or phrase that would connect his neural impulses and make the world feel coherent again. The Shimada needed him again. They needed him. It had been so long. It wasn’t over, nothing was over. This mission wasn’t over.

“I don’t know,” he breathed out quietly, catching his own reflection in the glass. He stoically observed the concave shadows in his face, trying to concentrate. “They have been collapsing for many years. They are not foolish--they would not contact me without allowing me time to finish my current business and regroup.”

He had promised to see through his mission with McCree. Reyes was still out there somewhere, alive, and the thought of that made Hanzo’s blood boil. This was something he had to finish.

“I may have to secure my own transport, for reasons of stealth. I must talk to my informant to gauge the true severity of the situation. ”

Even if stealth wasn’t necessary, if any gang leader in Japan caught wind of Hanzo re-entering the country, McCree would be in danger by association. And that danger would follow him all over the world. He silently regarded the passing scenery as he worried his beard with a hand. “I don’t know. We shall have to see.”

McCree didn’t respond, reaching into his duster and pulling out a cigar. He lit up and took a puff as they pulled up behind the inn, looking for a place to stash the truck. It was easy enough to conceal and once they had they sat together, silence extending out between them until it became so palpably awkward even Hanzo noticed. He glanced up at McCree to see him leaned back in the seat, looking thoughtful. He tapped the cigar on the door then took another puff. 

“Mission here’s pretty much over. The next time Talon shows up it could be halfway across the world and I only have so many means of travel. We took a shot and missed. There’s no point cryin’ over lost chances, but I mean it when I say you’ve done your part in this fight. Don’t even know if I’m gonna be able to continue fightin’ it. You go where you need to go.” 

The cowboy refused to look at him. Hanzo figured he was telling the truth this time. He himself knew he’d done all that he could. He let out a huff of laughter and angled his eyes out the front window.

“It is obvious that I must go. But I somehow doubt the fight is over. Not for you.” He scowled and gripped his communicator, pulling up the display and already impulsively constructing a response to his message. “I will iron out the details myself. I should at least be able to see you to your next safehouse.”

“Don’t worry about that.” His voice was so easy, unconcerned. It was almost as though they hadn’t just failed miserably at the only objective that had driven either of them since Kingsley. McCree opened the door and stepped out of the car, heading towards the inn. Hanzo followed, fingers still tapping deftly on the device as he walked on autopilot, every word carefully chosen. 

When they reached the room, McCree started digging around in their belongings. Hanzo quickly figured out that he was counting all the cash they had on them, counting it and tucking it away. When Hanzo finally sent his message he stood tensely in the room, unsure of what to do with the commotion McCree was causing going through their things. 

“What are you doing?” he finally asked, eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Nothin’,” McCree lied. “Just figurin’ out how much we’ve got on us. Might as well spend it.” 

Hanzo’s brows knotted together. In a dry, humorless voice he said without thinking, “On what? More bottles of rum?”

“Or whiskey. Whichever you prefer.” It took Hanzo a moment to realize that he was being serious. The cowboy raised his eyebrows and gave a pointed shrug. “What? Mission’s over, you’re leavin’. Isn’t that the way all partners finish things off?” 

That sobered Hanzo completely. The idea that the mission was over still hadn’t hit him. It wasn’t over, really. But for them it was. He had never envisioned an end for it, had no idea where they were going with this, or how long they would keep fighting together. He never expected his estranged empire to suddenly need him again. These months of chasing McCree’s specter, which pulled him with all the gravity of the sun, might as well have been a vacation from reality. He felt too full and empty at the same time.

He took a deep breath in through his nose, intentionally not looking at McCree. What was one more night of drinking? It was normal. Something other than the rupture.

He sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s at least drink at the bar this time. Not with full bottles in the room, like animals.”

“Alright, miss Pretty n’ Proper.” Hanzo shot him a sharp look, but McCree was already heading out of the room. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Shower,” was all he said. Hanzo wrinkled his nose, considering taking one himself then deciding against it. He’d had enough of bathing with McCree and couldn’t foresee a positive outcome from doing so again.  
He knelt down on the floor, placing his hands on his knees and taking a deep breath through his nose. He would meditate until the filthy cretin found his way back. 

-

“There’s no denyin’ it’s rotgut, but this swill is actually growin’ on me,” McCree said, raising his glass of whiskey in indication. He looked much better after his shower, Hanzo had to admit. He would go so far as to say he didn’t find the texture of his beard to be completely repulsive now. He gave him a disapproving look regardless. 

“That is because it has burned off any means of tasting it.” 

“You might be right.” McCree took another drink. “That means it’s workin’.” 

Hanzo couldn’t resist rolling his eyes as he tossed back his own whiskey and motioned for the bartender to refill his glass. He had not expected to become so well-acquainted with this place, and by the displeased look on the bartender’s face, neither had he. Hanzo could recognize some regular patrons. He figured from their brief glances they knew him and McCree too. So foolish. They had taken so many dumb risks on his mission. He figured the cowboy exuded a forcefield that forcibly lowered the intelligence of all within it. Or at the very least, protecting an idiot who made stupid mistakes required making even dumber decisions.

He felt another scowl pulling down the corners of his mouth. He kept his eyes on his drink, mind racing through his own plans for the near future while McCree blathered on about something inconsequential at his side. After McCree paused to sip his whiskey, Hanzo asked him, “What shall you do from here? You need to start preparing. Decide on the next location, and supplies.”

“Way to be a buzzkill, Hanzo. I’ll figure it out as I figure it out.” He took a long drink as though he were making some sort of stupid point. Hanzo didn’t find it very amusing. “Probably head back up north. Maybe kick around in California for a while longer.” 

There was a weighted silence and then he said, “Maybe I’ll contact an old friend at Overwatch. Maybe I won’t.” 

The mention of Overwatch immediately sent prickles of frustration up Hanzo’s back. Sure, they had been running with the former leader of the organization, but the mention of Overwatch’s current reactivation still left a sour pit in Hanzo’s stomach.

He rounded on McCree and scolded, “Such a reckless approach is what nearly got you killed at Kingsley. Not to mention your incident with that poisonous snake, which you were so proud of. If you are ‘kicking around’ anywhere, you need to know what you’re doing. I am going nowhere until you have at least _some_ idea.”

“You remembered the snake!” McCree sounded much more amused than he had any right to be. “And what if I never have a plan? What then, Hanzo? You gonna stick around until I’m old and gray and nag my ass right off my legs?” 

“I would much rather kill you myself and at least know what became of you,” Hanzo growled in response, giving McCree a rather harsh elbow to the side. He was satisfied with the injured grunt that came out. “You will have a plan. I will construct it myself if necessary.”

“Relax, I’ll figure something out. You’re the plannin’ type, I’m the type to play it by ear and figure things out on the fly. Now, if you looked at old Westerns as a rubric you’d be able to determine which one is the cooler, more suave approach.” 

Hanzo didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. He took deep offense nonetheless. Before he could say as much, McCree threw back the last of his whiskey and slammed it down with a loud thunk, motioning for more. “If you were going to kill me you would have already. Are you trying to damage this carefully constructed trust? Why ruin a good thing, Hanzo?”

Confused, Hanzo narrowed his eyes and levelled a stern glare at McCree. The cowboy simply raised his eyebrows up, then down, then up again. “I am not ruining anything. I do not care what you think is _cool_. And if I killed you, you could _trust_ it would be the best damn thing for you at the time.”

He finished off his own glass and determinedly plunked it on the counter to punctuate his statement. He met McCree’s eye in challenge and found him as aloof as ever. Idiot.

“That’s some big talk. Some big talk indeed.” They were served another drink each and the barkeeper gave them a disapproving look which they both ignored. “Don’t know what I’ll do without you on my ass every second of the day.” 

If McCree died in a ditch then so be it. Hanzo couldn’t shake the feeling that as soon as he was out of sight he’d do something stupid and get himself killed, but he supposed the cowboy had lived to this age without dying. Maybe his special brand of luck. He was slightly startled when he found McCree suddenly rounding the inquiries on him. 

“And what about you? You sure going to restore your family is the best idea?” 

“The Shimada will never be restored. I could never do that. Nobody could.” He carefully turned the cup around in his hand, watching the sloshing amber from all angles. “But there are people I still must protect. People whom I owe my childhood to. Whether it’s inadvisable does not matter.”

“Can’t pretend I know anything about that.” When Hanzo glanced up he caught McCree staring down at the glass in Hanzo’s hand rather than his own. “Easy to get dragged into things, though. Hate to see you swallowed up by it.” 

This was odd. McCree had never pried into his business in this way before or made comments about his family beyond the usual chatter. Hanzo had the impression he was having trouble choosing his words, trying to be diplomatic while also having a very strong opinion. He met Hanzo’s gaze with jarring suddenness. 

“I’ll take care of myself. You gonna do the same?” 

He searched McCree’s face, looking for an explanation for the confusing behavior. Of course, the answer was easy.

“I don’t plan on dying, nor do I plan on staying in Japan longer than I have to. If that’s what you’re asking.” He lifted one eyebrow and commented, “I don’t believe you know what it means to take care of yourself, but I trust that you will scrape by somehow. Though I still expect an itinerary before I leave.”

“I’ll get right on that, don’t you worry. Right after I finish this drink.” Not very promising. Hanzo watched him take a drink with narrowed eyes.  
McCree was going to drink himself into the grave before Talon had a chance to take a swipe.

-

McCree’s shoulder bumped Hanzo’s for the fifth time as they stumbled back towards the inn. They had stayed much longer than originally intended. Hanzo’s head felt light and his feet unsteady. At least McCree had the decency to match him drink for drink this time. He seemed to be in good spirits and Hanzo had to admit this had gone much better than their last stint of drinking. 

A smile played at McCree’s lips as they walked, no doubt lost in some inane thought. From time to time he would glance over and meet Hanzo’s gaze then have the gall to look pleased about something, as though he had been proven right. Hanzo didn’t understand it, but it filled him with the urge to give him a good shove. 

He got his chance when the normally-infallible McCree tripped over a rock in the road and stumbled towards him. Even while drunk Hanzo had the stability and reflex to reach out and catch McCree’s back with one hand. With great relish he took the opportunity to forcefully thrust McCree into a proper standing position, which merely sent him fumbling in the opposite direction. As the weight of him left Hanzo’s hand and the unbidden smirk died on his lips, he realized with solemn clarity that after they parted ways, they’d probably never see each other again. McCree would go to some far corner of the world, and if Hanzo survived his return to Japan, only the gods knew where he could go. Perhaps not even this would repay his debt to the Shimada.

The cowboy managed to right himself, holding his hat steady as he shook his head and shot Hanzo some witty remark that he felt himself automatically respond to. Brown eyes twinkled hazily underneath the brim of McCree’s hat, lighting up the worry lines around his eyes. This would be the last time Hanzo saw that fire. For that much, he could allow himself some disappointment.

They reached the room and McCree immediately got onto his knees, digging around under the bed for some unknowable purpose. Hanzo left to get a few packs of water for them--something he had to haggle with the innkeeper about for several minutes--and when he finally returned found McCree sitting on the bed with the rest of the rum from their last drinking session. He was tipping the neck to his mouth just as Hanzo entered the room. The archer stared, baffled, then scowled darkly. 

“Stop that. You do not need more.” 

“Who’s to say the party isn’t just gettin’ started.” McCree threw back some rum, eyeing the water in Hanzo’s arms. “I’ll stop when I’m good and ready.” 

Hanzo somewhat clumsily put the water on the floor and walked to the bed, holding out his hand for the rum. He beckoned with his fingers. “We have already discussed this. We are not animals. You remember the last time.”

“I don’t actually remember much of last time, which is exactly the outcome I was hopin’ for. What’s it to you if I drink more?” McCree turned his body to keep it out of reach like some sort of petulant infant. He took another drink and raised a brow at him challengingly. “It’s not like you can stop me.” 

“Be civil,” Hanzo sighed gruffly, leaning in to reach for the bottle again, only to meet with more serpentine twisting just out of reach. The cowboy tilted the rum back with his head upside down, trying to catch another sip. “You are going to get it all over the bed. You’ll drown yourself. _McCree_.”

With a loud belly laugh, McCree kept pulling it to his mouth in false starts, threatening to chug or to spill or do any number of monstrously repulsive things. Mirth shone in his expression so brightly that it flung Hanzo into a rage. He alighted on McCree and wrestled with him for the bottle, elbows and hands waging war. Eventually he got the rum out of McCree’s hands, but not before dousing the head of the mattress in alcohol. He hopped off the bed and chucked the bottle out of the window in frustration. They heard the crash of splintering glass outside and the faint yowl of a frightened cat. Hanzo thought he heard the innkeeper shriek somewhere down the hall too.

McCree stared at the window where the bottle had made its exit with slack-jawed disbelief. Then he turned on Hanzo, taking in a breath to undoubtedly demand why he had done such a thing or otherwise heckle him. Instead,he broke out into more laughter, shaking his head and dropping himself back onto the bed. Hanzo had the distinct impression of an unspoken ‘You Win,’ but could not find it to be anything other than offensive. McCree motioned with his hand as if Hanzo was his lackey. 

“Mind bringing me a water?” he asked, not for the first time confusing his uncountable nouns. 

For a moment Hanzo gaped like a fish, trying to string together a hotheaded retort. He eventually gave up and retrieved the water, tossing it at McCree’s face. The cowboy ducked and the bottle rebounded off the wall, landing next to his head. He ran his hairy arm right through the rum-soaked part of the mattress while making a grab for it. Hanzo felt himself momentarily seize up with a full-body revulsion. As McCree popped the cap off and spilled some water into his mouth, Hanzo felt extremely foolish for any prior remorse. He’d be glad to leave this idiot behind to stew in the cesspool of his own existence.

The cat was still prattling on outside. Another hissing feline had apparently joined it and they were now trading insults. Hanzo looked out the window, trying to find them, and finally remembered--a curtain. They had needed one so badly, to keep potential enemies from seeing into their room, and not once had they actually sought one out. Frustration burned in his chest. Maybe they could have gotten one if they didn’t spend all their money on drinking.

He impulsively pulled off his gi, took two arrows from his quiver, and used them to anchor the cloth above the window. He stabbed the arrowheads into the wall with great satisfaction, only partially worried about the holes they would leave in his expensive clothing. Didn’t matter--McCree had already shot through the gi’s side. At least now nobody could see through and the sun wouldn’t blind them in the morning. He stood there with both hands on his hips, huffing in half-satisfaction.

“What the hell did you do that for? You finally lost it?” McCree did not appreciate his efforts in the slightest, it seemed. He slung an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light of the flickering ceiling bulb. He waved his other hand at Hanzo. “Turn off the light, come on.” 

Hanzo did so because it was the next logical course of action, not because McCree told him to. He lay down beside him on the bed, elbowing the cowboy to make enough room and a little more for good measure. McCree didn’t seem bothered, but his side of the mattress also wasn’t the one that was soaked in rum. Excellent--he had thoroughly ruined the last night they spent together in this place. Hanzo supposed it was fitting. 

The seconds ticked by into minutes. Hanzo found that despite the alcohol his mind was still buzzing with uncertainty. This would be the last night he spent with the idiot behind him. McCree’s back was large and warm against his own and when Hanzo shifted the fabric scratched against his bare skin. At least he’d had the forethought to remove the filthy duster before laying down. 

McCree didn’t smell as pungent as he usually did, though that could easily be the stench of rum covering it up. Though he _had_ gone off for the shower earlier. Hanzo now regretted not joining him, but not enough to actually wish he had. Showering with McCree was always a bad idea. He thought about the grimy hose at the omnic compound and McCree’s gleeful expression as they grappled in the wet, sandy dirt. Remembering that unraveled a string of memories starting at the omnic compound, snaking across the desert, through the many faces of Dorado to where they were now at this very moment. When he finally came back to the end of their journey he felt exhausted, but no closer to sleep. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to readjust his arm.

McCree sat up behind him and Hanzo glanced back sharply in annoyance as a water bottle was cracked open and drained completely. Good. He needed the water. McCree laid down again, his warmth returning to Hanzo’s back. How he could lay there with a calm mind and take such even breaths was beyond him. Hanzo could not remember the last time he had worked with someone so unhurried and level-headed. Even his father, with stoic grace and penetrating focus, lived with burning blood. He had once thought his father calm. Now, feeling McCree’s steady heartbeat pulse through his back, Hanzo knew that was wrong.

The warmth. The honor. The respect among warriors, and the constant fighting. The desert, Kingsley, the inn, the bar, the villain that brought them together. The hat and the gush of dirty red fabric around McCree’s neck. They’d probably never meet again. Hanzo closed his eyes and retreated into his mind, trying to go to a place where there was nothing and no one. Things would go back to normal. They’d both be fine.

McCree shifted behind him, something he was barely aware of in his current state. Hanzo felt him roll over onto his other side. It was not the first time he had done such a thing, though Hanzo noted it with some irritation. He had always been under the impression that the boorish American would throw his arm over him in his sleep, and Hanzo would be required to wake him with an elbow to the face. He almost dared him to try it, taking great pleasure in imagining the scenario a few times.

A foreign sensation caught his attention, a small tickle at the back of his neck. He was about to reach up to scratch at it when he realized that it was being caused by McCree. A light breath of warm air brushed across the nape of his neck, followed once more by the tickling feeling which he this time recognized as McCree’s beard. 

Hanzo immediately tensed. He hadn’t thought McCree would actually breach his space this much. But what could be expected from a drunk? He shifted a bit, readying his elbow but finding that his limbs did not do as he said. No matter. It would probably stop soon and McCree didn’t really mean any harm. 

And then he felt it. A solid warmth pressing to the back of his neck, chapped and dry. At first it didn’t register and was soon pulled away, replaced with just the brushing of facial hair. Then it came again, this time accompanied by just the slightest hint of wetness. He realized with a avalanche of emotions in his gut that it was McCree’s mouth. But he wasn’t just bumping into him in his sleep. When his lips came a third time the action was undeniably deliberate. 

All thoughts fled from Hanzo’s mind, leaving only cold fear. His body went stiff and he felt McCree pause--heard it in a held breath--but only for a moment. His mouth returned again, more emboldened, and Hanzo felt another prickle of beard hair that set his skin on fire.

He was asleep. He was having a nightmare. He at least needed McCree to think that’s what this was. He willed himself not to move, trying not to give away his awakeness, but the more he tried the tenseness in his frame belied his clarity. The world felt tilted, felt wrong, it felt like the scraping of McCree’s moustache and his wet mouth had crawled under the flesh of his neck and into his spine. McCree didn’t know what he was doing. He was drunk. They were both drunk. He needed to move.

McCree’s lips returned again, breath ghosting over Hanzo’s hairline, and pressed down near his ear. A soft grunt escaped Hanzo’s throat, his neck jerking minutely against his will. He was horrified to hear and feel a puff of quiet amusement from the man behind him.

He knew. He knew Hanzo was awake. He knew Hanzo knew that he knew. Hanzo felt McCree’s chest push closer to his back, lighting up the skin of his shoulder blades. He should never have removed his gi. Is this what gave McCree the impression he could do something like this? He had trusted McCree. The hint of stubborn betrayal was accentuated by another touch of lips to the place where shoulder joined with neck--this one longer and more lingering.

This had to stop. Hanzo turned his head to speak, opening his mouth, but found himself frozen staring up at the ceiling. He could feel McCree’s breath against his ear, hear it. The sensation stopped him cold and he felt words struggle and die in his throat. 

McCree’s lips parted and the kissing--if it could be called that--resumed. The sound of it was far too close now, wet presses traveling lightly up along the shell of his ear. It made Hanzo shiver and he was immediately appalled by his own reaction. The warmth shifted and his skin tingled just behind his ear where McCree pressed his mouth. Hanzo tried to speak again but was only able to draw in a sharp breath of air. 

McCree’s mouth started moving in a direction that made Hanzo’s stomach bottom out and panic rise in his chest. McCree’s beard scratched against his neck, lips moving over Hanzo’s jaw, following the line of his beard up until he was thankfully stopped by their position. McCree pulled back and Hanzo hoped that might be the end of it. 

There was a moment of taut silence as McCree lingered behind him. Hanzo barely dared to breathe. He swallowed, finding a lump in his throat to be thick and difficult. He stared wide eyed at the ceiling, glancing around the wood grain wildly as if for some sort of sign. Just as he was about to sit straight up, a sensation bolted him to the bed. 

Wet warmth drew his attention to the base of his neck where McCree was leaning over him, mouth open on his skin. Something strange curled slowly in Hanzo’s stomach. He realized belatedly that McCree was sucking on him and shut his eyes tightly. 

His mind struggled to find an explanation for what was happening. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t fathom why McCree was doing this to him. The idea that he might leave a mark entered briefly into Hanzo’s mind and caused him a small heart attack. The thing in his stomach curled sharply when he felt hard, blunt teeth scrape his skin, just before McCree released him. Hanzo drew in another sharp breath, barely forming a word when McCree ducked his head down and started again, just next to the previous spot. 

McCree alternated between sucking and dragging his teeth across Hanzo’s neck, gently attacking pulse points and vulnerable, pliant areas the sniper never thought he’d have to defend. His breath came out in quiet, controlled bursts. He tried to keep them steady, eyelids fluttering open and closed with the effort. A spidery warmth crept into his back, moving up to his shoulder and down his arm. He realized belatedly it was McCree’s hand, calloused fingers rubbing circles into the tattoo on his arm.

The sharp, wet sensations on his neck distracted from the path of McCree’s hand, which slipped down and underneath Hanzo’s arm to trace his rib cage. Hanzo curled inward instinctively. McCree simply moved with him, chest and lips melding with his body more firmly.

Each time McCree did something new, some unspoken rule was broken over and over again, that this couldn’t possibly go any further. But every time he pushed it further, and every time Hanzo allowed him. His mind was a mess, muddled and stricken, and he almost didn’t realize when McCree’s hand started moving lower. 

Fingertips brushed at his stomach and the muscle sank under the touch. He clenched his teeth as they came down to brush along his hip, dragging over skin that Hanzo barely thought of when he touched it himself, but now sent fire through his nerves. The fingers dragged back and forth there indecisively before finally brushing down into the dip of his hip. He gasped sharply, eyes flying open as he nearly bit his tongue. McCree rubbed more circles into that area, waking up everything south of Hanzo’s waistline.

When the fingers began playing at the waistband of his pants, a thumb slipping below the cloth, Hanzo finally summoned the strength to reach down and grab the hand. He heard another breathy laugh and turned to cast a glare behind him only to feel McCree give a particularly hard suck to the left side of his neck. McCree’s hand started moving beneath Hanzo’s, feeling over his hipbone, pressing firm and slow. Hanzo groaned and arched slightly. His gut burned with traitorous heat. He clasped the hand tightly, threateningly, unable to concentrate long enough to pull it away.

Time stretched on nebulously, immeasurable between nipping teeth, the heartbeat at his back, the sickening stench of spilled rum, and continuous pressure at his lower abdomen. He had no idea how long he lay there, allowing himself to be touched and tasted. Finally he noticed that McCree’s movements were slowing down. His kisses became more languid and lazy until eventually the wet sensation disappeared from his tingling nape. When Hanzo’s own breathing evened out, he realized that McCree had fallen asleep. The weight of his arm remained draped over Hanzo’s side.

Hanzo felt nothing. He did not allow himself to feel anything. He could barely acknowledge what had just happened. His stomach twisted--this was wrong. Companions didn’t do this together. Men didn’t do this together. Men were supposed to be safe, reliable, trustworthy. He thought he could trust McCree. He needed to move McCree’s arm, but feared what would happen if he woke up again. He might continue. He might push forward and try to take more. Hanzo felt guilt and fear writhe inside his gut. He should have stopped him. He didn’t know why he couldn’t.

He retreated once more inside his own mind, seeking out that place where nothing and no one existed. He was chased by the solid presence of McCree’s arm the whole way. He arrived there, allowing himself to be consumed by the darkness, alone except for the limb. His mind wouldn’t let him fathom the man it was attached to.

-

A trilling sound like tinkling crystal needled Hanzo into consciousness. His eyelids were too heavy to open. Memories of the previous night floated back to him through the haze of exhaustion. The sturdy arm still hung over his side, holding him in the dark under siege. If Hanzo just didn’t look, just went back to sleep, it would cease to be real. Last night would never have happened.

The trilling came again, from his belt. His communicator. He opened his eyes and looked across the room at his utility pouches, resting next to his bow and obi on the floor. The world became real, the arm around his waist became painfully extant, and Hanzo realized his mistake too late. His chest felt weak, like he couldn’t get enough air. He needed so badly to move and for once his body obeyed him. With a feather-light touch and grace normally reserved for killing enemies, Hanzo lifted McCree’s arm and slipped out of bed. As he carefully laid the bronzed arm on the mattress, fingers brushing through rough skin and thick hair, Hanzo felt revulsion and shame swirl in his stomach. It took all his effort to keep from letting the limb simply flop out of his grasp. His fingers burned with McCree’s body heat. Only a thin stripe of sunlight fell through the curtain, lighting up the point of contact between them. He refused to look at the cowboy’s face.

He retrieved his communicator and found he had received two responses from his informant. He was given a location not far from Dorado where he would be picked up by an armored vehicle. Today, in a few hours. If he got moving within the next hour he would have just enough time to make it.

He froze with communicator in hand, staring blindly at the warped display. A very bold, very practical idea struck him with the force of a train. He dared to glance over at McCree and saw he had not stirred at all. A cold sweat formed at the base of Hanzo’s neck, trickling down. He could steal away, as quiet as a whisper, and leave. Right now. He would have to leave McCree anyway. This was easier. It was the only option--the only way to fix what had happened. What other option was there? Talking? Would McCree even remember?

He could leave. He could take the car and go. No, he should leave it--he didn’t need the car. McCree needed it more. He could find some other method of transportation. Maybe hitch a ride with someone, like they did in the desert. The memory made his chest tight and the panic well up further. He cursed inwardly and clipped the belt around his waist, pocketing the communicator. He needed to get out of this room.

His gi was still hanging over the window. He feared letting the sunlight in, worried that McCree might wake up. He anxiously mulled over the issue until he saw McCree’s duster, lying unused near the bed. Of course. He had foolishly pierced the cloth of his own gi when they could have just used McCree’s ridiculous duster as a curtain. Stupid. Hanzo took down his gi and replaced it with the duster, careful not to let even one yellow ray pass through and shine on McCree’s face. He took some pleasure in stabbing the arrows through the red fabric. The idiot cowboy deserved this. This was the least of what he deserved.

He could leave. He should take the car and go, and never see him again. It was clean and simple. It was what McCree deserved. Hanzo put on his gi, sucked in a deep breath, and left the room. He rubbed his forehead to chase away the thoughts. Water. He needed water. McCree would too. They already had some in the room, but there was no point in wasting their stores. 

When he went to trouble the innkeeper for the usual supplies, he found the omnic even more pleasant than before. Probably because he was happy to see them finally leave. It imparted both water and painkillers to Hanzo, and a lot of each. It leaned over the counter to drop the pills into Hanzo’s hand, giving him a strange look. Strange for an omnic, at least.

“You doing okay?”

“Fine,” Hanzo answered. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” the omnic hummed, casting a glance at what seemed to be Hanzo’s left shoulder. “Good thing you guys are leaving today. Heard something about some dangerous characters hanging around. Checkout time is at 4.”

Hanzo returned to the room, dropped off the supplies, and found McCree still snoring away. He took the opportunity to run to the bathroom. As he washed his hands, he saw in the cracked mirror a dark red spot between his neck and shoulder. He stared in bewilderment, and once he realized what it was, a chill went through him. A mark. And the omnic had seen. Somebody knew. The previous night became real all over again. He leaned his full weight against the sink for a few moments, forcing himself to steady his breathing. When he finally left the bathroom he pulled up the left side of his gi and stuck his arm through, covering the usually-bare half of his chest.

This time when he returned to the room he was startled to see McCree sitting up, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t look up at Hanzo, but held his hand out expectantly. Hanzo stared at it for a moment, then moved automatically to pass him pills and water. McCree swallowed them down greedily, making a noise of disgust. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbled as he worked out a crick in his neck. He didn’t seem inclined to say much else, waking up at his own pace and gradually draining the glass. 

It was so uncomfortable Hanzo found it difficult to breathe. He stood there observing what had become McCree’s routine in silence. He was not sure how to proceed and once again the idea of leaving appealed to him, but it was too late to do so gracefully now. McCree glanced up and a jolt of tension shot through him. They met each other’s gaze for a few moments and Hanzo had the terrifying thought that McCree might try to say something. 

Anything he might have said was cut off by the sharp sound of a gunshot. In a second McCree was on his feet, grabbing his gun and pressing his back up against the wall by the door. Hanzo retrieved his bow, nocking an arrow. Nearly a minute passed without another sound and McCree finally cracked the door, glancing out. He frowned deeply then opened it further, lowering his gun but not holstering it. 

“Domestic dispute?” If that was the case then there was no need for them to investigate, but McCree was already heading out into the hall. Hanzo couldn’t shake the dread that filled his gut. Something wasn’t right. It sounded like the shot had come from the main part of the inn. But if Talon had tracked them here, wouldn’t they have attacked directly? 

McCree was the first to step into the main room of the inn, gun at the ready. He slipped a little, taking a quick step back and grabbing onto the doorframe. Both of their gazes were drawn downwards to a puddle of oil on the floor, then a figure laying next to it. 

It was the innkeeper, completely still. The lights behind his robotic eyes were no longer shining, giving them an uncanny look. There was a hole square between them, clearly made by a bullet. A spray of crystalline shards of glass decorated one of its arms.

“Ah, fuck,” McCree muttered in disappointment. Hanzo glanced through the broken window and saw movement on the roof of a building in the distance. Could have been their killer. He traded a glance with McCree who carefully peered out with his gun drawn, trying to keep out of sight.

Hanzo stayed low to the ground as he crept around the omnic’s body. He leaned down and pressed an ear to its chest, listening for its cooling fans on the off chance it might still be alive. He heard nothing. He sat up, looking into the innkeeper’s dark eyes, struck by the cold sheen of its empty face. Just a few minutes ago it had spoken to him in a familiar tone. He could not say it had been alive, but it had been moving, speaking, thinking. Now it likely never would again. He knew enough about robotics to know that an omnic’s memory receptors were in the same place as a human’s. Its body could be brought back, but its mind could not.

He felt compelled to take action. What could be done for a dead omnic? There could be no closing of its eyes or prayers to its god. He wondered if it had a family. The only thing Hanzo could do was bow his head, place a hand on the innkeeper’s faceplate, and silently say goodbye.

He crept under the windowsill, out of its line of sight, and said to McCree, “We have to leave. If this attack was meant for us, they may strike again.”

“It was meant for us, all right.” McCree seemed certain. Hanzo followed him out of the room, both of them moving quickly and quietly through the hall back to the room to grab their belongings. It was as McCree was quickly pulling his duster from the wall that he gruffly muttered, “It’s probably him. Got someone to come in and make a point.” 

A deep scowl grew on Hanzo’s face. Such tactics were familiar from his days with the Shimada, but they were a necessity of turf warfare. This wasn’t necessary. Reyes had the whole of Talon behind him. There was no need to kill someone to make a point to one stupid cowboy.

“Keep out of the light as much as you can,” he advised.

Once they had everything they quickly fled to their car. As McCree climbed in and revved the engine, Hanzo covered him with bow and arrow. He leapt into the passenger’s side and they peeled out onto the Dorado streets. They said nothing until they had passed the city limits and the buildings melted back into a stretch of unforgiving desert. Hanzo kept his ear out for the sound of bullets.

The more time passed without interference, the angrier Hanzo became. He sunk into the seat, back tense, and scrubbed his face. “He really was just making a point.”

McCree grunted, chewing on the cigar he’d pulled out to stress smoke a few minutes before. “Asshole wouldn’t just send an assassin like civilized folk. Wants to kill me himself, I reckon.”

That was likely. Reyes would probably have been furious if someone else had killed McCree in his place. “Lucky for you the window was blocked. Could have been you instead of the omnic. I conned the guy out of money, too.” 

He sighed, shaking his head in what appeared to be regret, then looked at Hanzo. “Where am I taking you?” 

Right from one crisis into another. Hanzo hesitated for a moment before giving McCree an address that was about thirty minutes walking distance from the pickup point. When McCree put it into the GPS they found it was about three hours away. Hanzo could only imagine how painfully awkward this car ride would be.

The image of the omnic’s lifeless face stuck in the back of his mind, refusing to disappear. Perhaps Reyes simply wanted to make a point. But that also could have easily been McCree.

“Have you decided what you are going to do from here on?” Hanzo felt the need to ask.

“Not really. Goin’ back up to California, beyond that I’m not sure. I’m gonna think of somethin’ once I’m somewhere that ain’t on the run.” Typical. McCree took a puff on his cigar, then spoke reluctantly. “Might contact an old friend. They’ll have information on Talon. I may as well keep at what I’ve been doing.” 

At least he wasn’t going to go it solo again. That would definitely put him in an early grave. Hanzo shook his head in frustration and pulled up the display on his communicator. Seemed like he had to do everything. He didn’t really want to talk, and McCree didn’t seem keen on talking, so Hanzo embroiled himself in searching and compiling information. The hours flew right over his head in the stagnant silence.

He pulled a small device from his utility pouch and held it up to his holoscreen. The information he compiled was instantly copied onto the device. As they approached the drop-off location, he turned off his communicator and handed the smaller device over to McCree.

“The hell is this?” McCree asked, holding it up and squinting at it.

“A storage device,” Hanzo answered.

“I _know_ that, Mr. Miyagi, I’m asking what’s on it.”

The sniper narrowed his eyes and grimaced, not understanding the jab. “Since you refused to flesh out your plans, I did it for you. There might be a chance that your actions in Kingsley left a trail leading to you, so I suggest you pass through California and go to Nevada. I have noted some people you can go to there, and temporary work that suits your skill sets.”

The cowboy raised one eyebrow at that. “My skill sets, huh?”

“However, if you insist on bumbling around California,” Hanzo continued gruffly, looking out the window, “I have included resources for you there too.”

“Now why’d you go to all that trouble?” McCree shook his head, but pocketed the device and parked the car. They observed their surroundings for a moment then fell into a deep awkwardness that permeated the car in an instant. McCree lifted his hat to smooth his hair uncomfortably then set it back down. Hanzo squinted at a crack on the dashboard. 

“So I guess this is it, huh?” McCree was the first to break the silence. “Been good workin’ with ya, Hanzo. Try not to pull any other crazy stunts like at Kingsley. Won’t be there to save your ass next time.” 

Hanzo turned to glare at McCree and retort, but stopped when he glimpsed some disappointment in the other man’s expression. He felt his own face soften.

“I am the one who should be saying that,” Hanzo said firmly. “You have the whole of Talon after you now. Promise me you won’t get yourself killed. Don’t go after him alone.”

McCree let out a puff of smoke and raised an eyebrow. Hanzo began preemptively tensing up in anger for some dismissive comment, but instead McCree nodded. “Yeah, alright. I can promise to avoid death when possible. You gonna do the same?” 

That wasn’t a one hundred percent guarantee, but Hanzo supposed he could not completely swear against death either. He nodded in agreement and felt some relief when McCree nodded back. At the same time, he felt the finality of their separation. The mission was over. Time for Hanzo to say his goodbyes.

He climbed out of the car, throwing his bow and quiver around his back. He stood there with his hand resting on the door, hesitating to close it. There had to be something he could say to fill the gap. There had to be some way to make this feel less wrong and work out everything they had left unspoken. He could think of nothing. McCree stared him in the eyes, waiting, visibly confused.

Hanzo finally spoke. “Don’t let him get to you. That man is a coward and a traitor. You have many faults, but you are better than him. You are stronger. Don’t let him make you think otherwise.”

McCree’s gaze softened a bit, then became serious before sliding into a smile. It seemed genuine, though it was very brief. He raised his hand in a lazy salute that tipped his hat back a bit. Hanzo’s hand moved automatically, shutting the door. With one glance to McCree through the glass, he turned and started heading towards the rendezvous point. 

This was the last time Hanzo would see him. The next chapter of his life would be devoted to the Shimada. Hanzo glanced back as he heard the engine rev and found that McCree was still looking at him. The cowboy gave a slow wave then hit the gas, driving away. 

The journey ahead seemed somehow longer than the months since Kingsley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys have gone their separate ways, but this is not the end!! For those of you who might have missed the notes at the beginning of the last chapter, this fic is split into approximately three phases. We have just reached the end of phase one! The next chapter starts phase two, which is where shit will really start to pick up. We are not sure how long each phase is going to be, so please bear with us! But for this next part of the story we will be dealing a lot with Hanzo's emotional problems and how his and McCree's relationship is now changing. They've both got a lot of baggage to unpack.
> 
> A lot of heavy things are coming, but so is a lot of fun! We hope you will enjoy every minute of it. Thank you so much for all of your support so far, and we will see you in the next update.
> 
> EDIT: We now have a Zarya/Mei fic! The first chapter is up here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405989
> 
> The ZaMei one will be updating again soon so please stay tuned! Also check out clownsick's project with MoonFlesh, a D.va/76 fic called 8-bit Heart! An age-difference fic that comes complete with wholesome fun and no daddy kinks: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12992400


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for such a long break between chapters. Life has been real busy for the both of us. We're still trucking along, though.
> 
> TW: Hanzo has a hard time mentally in this chapter. It's hard to know when to put trigger warnings, since everyone's threshold is different, but just in case please be aware. He's got a lot of intersecting traumas, and I know for some people it can be real uncomfortable to read about that. Please always take care of yourself and mind your own comfort when reading this or any other fic.

The grass thrummed with an aurora of blue and green light as Hanzo’s transport touched down in a field several miles out from the Shimada compound. Further industrialization had eaten up a few more acres of rolling green since Hanzo’s last visit. As he climbed out of the transport after his escorts, he saw skyscraper teeth strike gray clouds nearby. The moon, half-hidden, watched with cold detachment.

His entourage consisted of thirteen fully-outfitted, highly-trained strangers who had all crammed into the transport with him for a ten-hour trip. They could have made the trip in half the time thanks to Japanese technology, but in the interest of stealth the Shimada had chosen the slower path. If anyone caught even a whisper of Hanzo’s return, they would never have made it into Japan. He felt grateful that he recognized no one. He had no obligation to answer the distant, questioning glances of unknown grunts.

As the transport door closed and the vehicle hovered away, Hanzo turned his eyes to the Shimada compound in the distance. He could see the front gate peeking just barely above the roofs of traditional-style homes. He studiously refused to acknowledge the memories of leisure spent here in the fields with the man he thought he killed. It was not that time of the year yet.

One agent gestured toward the compound with a gloved hand. “We couldn’t get in too close, or else we would stick out. However, there are a few shortcuts and passageways to the heart of Hanamura.”

“Yes. I know them,” Hanzo said.

The man’s expression grew slightly stiff. He kept an unaffected tone. “The passageways have changed since you belonged to the Shimada clan.”

“They have,” Hanzo responded slowly, patiently. “After I left, I came here every year. I know your patterns. I know where to go.”

“Should you like to lead us, then?”

Hanzo’s only response was to take off at a steady clip, feet light and noiseless as they passed out of the field and into the maw of civilization. They threaded the streets for over two hours before emerging onto the familiar residential streets preceding the shrine gate. His eyes roamed longingly over the two-story homes crowded together on the cobblestone streets. Only a person’s width of space separated each house. The architecture plunged him unwillingly into nostalgia. Traditional structures and decor mixed with futuristic innovation, the old submerged within the unaging new. Time had long stopped passing here before Hanzo’s birth. The future stubbornly pushed back in the form of new technology and overcrowding.

Under his father’s guidance, this district had once belonged to the Shimada. Strangers became subordinates, subordinates became brothers, and brothers became tenants. All Shimada agents had lived here for free when Hanzo was a child. They were family. He could still remember the balding head of their closest neighbor peeking through his front door, silver currents of cigarette smoke wafting into view just beyond the compound’s gate. As he passed that same house, Hanzo noted distantly that the front door was boarded up. A few scraps of vehicular-grade plastic were tacked carelessly over holes in the wall. Bullet marks crawled out from underneath.

His escorts pulled ahead of him and opened their communicators. They barked out a short order and the massive, wooden gate slowly opened just enough for a few men to squeeze through at a time. They entered the courtyard and Hanzo watched two large omnics and a human shut and bar the gate behind them. A short group of steps led down into a wide patch of sandy dirt just in front of the bell shrine, and on that lowered ground stood his informant, Kazuya, flanked by two other Shimada members. His dark, marble-round pupils stared unwaveringly at Hanzo.

They met halfway at the bottom of the steps. Bowing in half, Kazuya greeted, “Shimada-sama. I am glad you arrived safely. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Hanzo bowed his head, not bothering with a formal greeting. “Of course. I could never refuse a request from you.”

The surrounding agents bristled in annoyance. Hanzo didn’t blame them. They did not know how close he and Kazuya had once been. When Kazuya straightened, a familiar glimmer passed over one black eye. Seeing that miniscule twinkle, a remnant of the days when they were young, should have made Hanzo feel warmth. He knew his heart should tug him forward to close the distance and speak like a friend. Only Kazuya had remained a comrade after Hanzo’s betrayal.

Streaks of aluminum gray slit deep, narrow gashes in Kazuya’s brown hair. Wrinkles rippled out from his eyes. Scars, crow’s feet, and laugh lines melded seamlessly together on his face. He spoke to Hanzo with muted kindness, saying, “We will settle your accommodations later. Let us go quickly to the other advisors,” and Hanzo saw him for the stranger he had become.

Still, he was Kazuya. And so Hanzo went with him, his escorts left to disperse in aimless directions as he, Kazuya, and the two agents at his side headed for the meeting hall.

-

“We are simply asking you to make an appearance,” the top advisor Ashida stated again blithely, on the edge of frustration. “If the Nanase group and their allies see you are back in Japan, they will cower.”

“They will not,” Hanzo pointed out in a flat tone. “The Nanase were never afraid of the Shimada, not even when their power and resources were inferior.”

A serving girl came by to offer him tea again for the seventh time in the span of their two hour meeting and he refused with a scowl. She went down the line, exchanging cups for the five other men present at the meeting, most of whom refused to participate. These were the advisors of an older era, balding and with loose folds accumulating on their faces. The Shimada’s current leader was conspicuously not in attendance, and not anywhere on the grounds.

As the serving girl retreated, one advisor gave her a cut-off glance of poorly-disguised interest. Hanzo’s lip curled in disgust.

A third man, one of the agents managing the training and deployment of yakuza recruits, jumped in. “You have no idea of the effect of your presence. Have you forgotten who you once were?”

Eyes sharpening, Hanzo replied with measured words, “I am aware that I would draw attention. But I fail to see how this plan would be beneficial in the long-term for the Shimada.”

Beside him, Kazuya’s hand curled and uncurled under the table. Outwardly, he was as stoic as a mountain, but Hanzo knew better. The “covert assassinations” he had mentioned in his communications to Hanzo were anything but.

Ashida pressed with mounting anger, “All you have to do is try. If you fail to kill them, it does not matter--”

Molten fury coursed through Hanzo’s body, lighting up every vein with pride. He stood up from his kneeling position on the floor and declared in a voice of echoing thunder, “I would not fail. And _that_ should cause you some concern. You would be stuck with the consequences.”

Every man in attendance lifted their head, eyes wide with fear--whether of him or for the future, he did not know. One thing Hanzo had learned over his life was that strong men bended to reason and respect. Weak men bowed to the roar of the dragon.

In the following silence, a dialogue and an understanding passed between everyone in the room. They knew. Everyone knew that this was a stopgap solution. He had been called back to Japan to be a scapegoat.

“We will find a way to handle it,” Kazuya told him calmly. Hanzo kept his eyes glued to Ashida, who was still half-frozen under his glare. “We have prepared for this. All we need you to do is set the future into motion.”

Emboldened by Kazuya’s assurances, Ashida himself rose and enunciated crisply, “You are not the leader anymore. You do not get to question. You are either with us or you are not.”

Despite the rage he felt at Ashida’s insolence, Hanzo knew his place in the matter. He had already made the decision to come back. He answered evasively, “I pray you will reconsider, for your own sake.”

With a smug, self-satisfied smile, Ashida said, “You leave in a week,” and that was that.

As the meeting dispersed, Kazuya led Hanzo to the room that had been arranged for him. They did not speak as they walked, thinking of what had just been decided. Within the next month three major leaders of Japan’s underground would die. A leader from the Nanase group, the Miyasaka group, and the newly-burgeoning Kondou.

Hanzo’s assigned quarters were that of a former advisor’s. Near the bed was a small table with two resplendent but weather-worn chairs. These were left over from the years before the collapse. The rest of the room was bare and peeling in comparison. He sunk into one of the chairs, scanning his room. Only a few plain, white blankets covered the bed. He supposed he had gotten accustomed to much worse conditions in Dorado. A few glimpses of the past few months flashed through his mind, trailing empty afterimages in their wake. He felt nothing.

“Do you still carry your kiseru?”

Hanzo looked over absently. “Hm?”

He saw that Kazuya had produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe from the inside of his jacket. He held out one hand expectantly. Hanzo didn’t really want to smoke, but he removed the kiseru pipe from his gi and handed it over. Kazuya quickly packed the bowl with thin strips of tobacco and lit the pipe. He then pulled out his own pipe, slightly shorter and colored with rich red and black hues. One that Hanzo had given him when they were both twenty years old. Hanzo took it from his hands and returned the favor of packing his pipe.

“You don’t have to do that,” Kazuya murmured nervously. Hanzo kept silent, balancing his own pipe firmly between his lips. 

After Kazuya lit up, they sat without speaking for a few minutes, taking in the first breaths of tobacco. Hanzo expelled a thin stream of white smoke and, watching it disperse against the familiar thatched pattern of the ceiling, remembered once again the many nights he pretended he was a dragon. Tacked onto the end of that memory was its revival in Dorado, in the run-down inn, cigar smoke becoming the new breath of the beast. He closed his eyes. He felt nothing.

From beyond the darkness, Kazuya finally spoke. “I am sorry. I never intended to show my hand to them. If I could have hidden you forever, I would have.”

Hanzo opened his eyes, and for a brief moment, Kazuya looked just like he had when they were kids and snuck out to smoke behind the bell shrine as they observed the shrouded mountains. Bright, alive, scared.

“You did what you thought was best,” Hanzo told him honestly. “You have been through much, and you have loved this empire well. What is left of it, at least.”

“You did not agree to our plan,” Kazuya hedged, eyes averted. Smoke curled out from his lips. “During the meeting.”

Hanzo paused with his pipe halfway to his mouth. “You do not need to worry. I will do whatever is asked of me. That is why I came all this way. I simply refuse to disgrace myself by agreeing with a decision I think is wrong.”

The brash disloyalty of that statement made the corners of Kazuya’s mouth turn up. “I am glad to see you have not lost your persistence. You have not changed as much as I thought.”

Hanzo didn’t bother correcting him. He merely pulled another breath of smoke into his mouth and held it there. You have not changed, he repeated to himself. It suddenly occurred to him that not once in his life had he ever smoked with his father. Perhaps they could have bonded over that. He closed his eyes. He felt nothing.

“Where is your current leader? I would have liked to give him my greetings,” Hanzo scoffed.

Kazuya sighed, “Off conducting important business. Or so he says. We have not heard from him directly in four days.”

“That is worrisome.”

“This has become commonplace in the Shimada. We can’t keep a leader alive long enough to consolidate. Truth be told, I am more worried for you. I do not doubt your strength but this feels … like a death sentence.”

“For most, it would be. But I am not most people.” At Kazuya’s grave apprehension, Hanzo added, “I have made a promise that I will not die. And you know that I keep my promises.”

Curiously, Kazuya asked, “To who?”

“No one you should be concerned about.”

At that moment, they felt the divide between them more firmly than ever. No longer were they comrades who could discuss their lives freely. For all of Kazuya’s good intentions, he had led Hanzo into a trap. And Hanzo had gone knowingly. He should have felt loneliness. He saw it in Kazuya’s expression, but no sense of yearning filled his chest. This separation was a logical consequence of the choices Hanzo made. Nothing was left except his obligation.

Eventually, Hanzo inquired, “When can I expect to receive the information I requested?”

“After you have successfully completed the first assassination. I have been ordered to withhold it as a bargaining chip.”

Eyes sharpening, Hanzo hissed, “Do they know the nature of the information I’ve asked for? Who I’ve asked about?”

“No. They requested it, but I prepared some decoy files for them. I may have dragged you into this war, but I will protect your interests with my life.”

He looked hurt at being doubted, leaving Hanzo somewhat astounded by his genuine sincerity. He saw Kazuya’s clenched fists, trembling with passion, and his furrowed brow and knew he was telling the truth.

Hanzo nodded. “I trust you.” Relief washed over Kazuya’s face and briefly made him young again.

“The advisors will send you off as soon as they can,” he informed Hanzo, tapping his pipe thoughtfully against the table. His eyes were downcast. “You and I both know the risks of this mission are great. I think, while you have time--”

He bit his lip, then quickly regained his composure. “If you would like to make an offering to your brother’s spirit, this time you can do so freely.”

A cold weight settled in Hanzo’s chest, heavy as steel. He refused to think about that man. He had easily dodged the memory of him until now. For a split second an impulse surged inside to go to the altar, fall to his knees, and burn incense until dawn broke over Hanamura. He could settle the matter with finality. No longer a burglar in his own home, he could say goodbye, and then walk into the darkness.

But he had promised.

“It’s not that time of year yet,” Hanzo breathed out.

“This may be your only chance,” Kazuya insisted with gentle concern.

Hanzo met his dark eyes and repeated simply, “It’s not that time of year.”

To that, Kazuya had no reply. They smoked without looking at each other, having nothing more to say. Eventually Hanzo broke the silence and asked Kazuya about old friends and what had happened to them. Many of them were dead. Others had left the clan in disillusionment within the years following Hanzo’s betrayal. Some were living in hiding, and yet others still clung to the vestiges of the old empire. As Kazuya detailed the gruesome deaths of friends, the ruthless passage of time, and the minor triumphs of comrades still living, Hanzo recorded every last one in his mind. The white smoke rolling out from their mouths reminded him of the heady trails of incense.

-

The room McCree had rented, somewhere in the ass end of California, was shabby and humid. It served him perfectly well, though, as the only two things on his mind when crossing the border were finding shelter and finding booze. He had acquired both and now sat in a deep mire of hellish introspection that smelled like cheap whiskey. 

McCree lifted the bottle and took a few deep swigs that burned on the way down then took a good, hard look at his life. He was sitting in a motel room in his shirt and underwear, pretty far gone with absolutely nothing driving him forward other than the general instinct not to die. At least at Kingsley he’d had some sort of purpose, even if it had been a deathwish. And in the weeks following, however many they had been, he’d had the goal of putting Reyes down at the forefront of his attention. Now he had neither of those things and through the drunken stupor he saw two choices. 

The first was to continue on as he had been. He could keep finding things to throw himself mindlessly into until he ran himself into the dirt or got himself killed. As he’d had plenty of practice with that since Overwatch’s collapse, he felt secure in saying it was a pretty shitty idea. But the alternative was possibly worse. 

Winston had sent out a recall message. It had reached McCree a few months back and he had watched it once, then not looked at it again. Now he found himself automatically flipping through his files until he came to it. He clicked and watched as Winston began awkwardly starting his scripted message, barely paying attention to what he was saying. He remembered. McCree lifted the bottle to his lips again, draining more this time as something unpleasant settled in his stomach. 

He could go back. At least with Overwatch there was a set purpose and resources, though they were no doubt more limited than they had been in the organization’s prime. Who knew what sort of setup Winston even had now. The thought of interacting with the other members set him on edge, though it was impossible to tell which ones even responded to the message. If their feelings were anything like McCree’s, then he’d wager not many. 

But the fact remained that he had a choice and McCree begrudgingly admitted that opening the message again meant he was leaning towards the latter. The video came to an end and he sighed, rubbing his face with his palm. There was a long pause where his finger hovered over the call button and he took a moment to scoff at the dramatics. This was ridiculous. Either he was doing it, or he wasn’t. McCree jammed his finger down and felt his stomach drop as the call began. As an afterthought he ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t going to put on pants, but what Winston didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

It was only a few minutes before Winston answered, straightening his glasses with his face too close to the camera. He backed up, getting a proper look, and could not hide how surprised he was when he saw who was calling. 

“Is this--McCree?” 

“Well, howdy to you too, Winston.” McCree had to wonder if he looked more like shit than the last time Winston had seen him. Maybe just older. He knew he was shitting himself. “Been a while.” 

“I’ll say!” Winston’s surprise was giving way to enthusiasm. McCree mentally stopped himself from taking another swig of whiskey and sat the bottle down beside the bed. “What have, uh, what have you been up to all these years?” 

“Oh, you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.” McCree’s expert evasion techniques did little to dampen Winston’s mood. He adjusted his glasses again, chuckling in that rumbly way he always had. 

“That’s more or less what everyone has said except Lena.” So Tracer was back. Good to know. McCree had always admired the kid’s moxy. “I take it you’ve given the recall some consideration.” 

“I’m givin' it some, yeah.” Winston smiled at him expectantly, shifting around in what looked like a giant tire. McCree knew from how Winston’s office had looked at the old headquarters that it probably was. He sighed. “Truth be told, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been runnin’ around like a chicken with my head cut off tryin’ to do what I can, but nothin' has quite panned out. Not sure I want to go back to Overwatch, either.” 

McCree had expected Winston’s face to fall, but he looked quite undeterred. “That’s understandable. Especially with your, uh, previous affiliations.” 

McCree grunted at that. No shit. He considered closing out of the call. Not out of any disrespect for Winston, but this was a lot more difficult than he had anticipated it being. His fingers itched to return to the bottle. “That’s certainly part of it. Not that I’m tryin' to rain on your illegal activities.” 

“If I remember correctly, you have no qualms with illegal activity.” Winston had him there. Though it was somehow worse with him doing it--McCree had never tried to live inside the bounds of the law. Overwatch had. 

“All I’m sayin’ is that if I did hypothetically have an interest in, say, rejoining,” The word left a bad taste on his mouth, so he shied away from it. “I wouldn’t exactly want to be a member, see? I’m thinkin’ more along the lines of someone who goes around and does your dirty work, but doesn’t exactly mingle.” 

“We could use someone like that.” 

McCree couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sure you could.” 

Was he really doing this? Maybe he should hang up. He could hang up and never think about this again. Something must have changed in his expression because Winston gave him what was undeniably a concerned look. 

“If you’re serious about this, I can send out what supplies are available to us. And I do have uh, sort of, a situation. That needs to be handled delicately.” 

“Now, Winston, you know delicate ain’t my style.” McCree heard the words come out of his mouth before he could decide whether or not to say them. He could at least hear him out. 

“Uh, yes. But really, we’re pretty desperate and any help we could get would be… well, it would be appreciated.” 

“Let’s hear it, then.” 

“There’s a government-run manufacturing company out in Kentucky. Ever since things started going downhill again they’ve been making all sorts of, er, sketchy things. Weapons, mostly. The latest thing they’ve been working on is an EMP. We don’t know a lot about it, but what we do know is that Talon is after it.” 

Of course they were. McCree figured he’d be going toe to toe with them again, but Winston had better not expect him to do it alone. 

“The EMP could take out all the omnics in a five mile radius if it went off. This is more than just precautionary measures. It could kill hundreds, thousands of them if it went off in a crowded city. It hasn’t been made yet, but they load their blueprints into a droid for safekeeping in the initial development stage. Our general plan of action is to steal the blueprints before anything can be made.” 

“So let me get this straight.” McCree leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lifting the phone up. “You want me to waltz into a heavily guarded manufacturing company and hope to hell I don’t get shot up, steal a droid that probably has some sort of tazer on it, and get out of there without gettin' caught?” 

Winston laughed awkwardly, giving a bit of a shrug. “That’s the long and short of it.” 

“Well, shoot.” McCree couldn’t help but laugh. Out of the frying pan and right back into the fire. What had he expected, though? He ran a hand through his hair. It sounded more like living than what he was doing now. “Yeah, alright. I’ll give it a shot.” 

Winston looked immensely relieved. “Really? That’s great. That’s just great. I’ll send you the coordinates and all the information we have. But McCree?” 

McCree raised a brow. Winston cleared his throat. “Are you, uh. Are you alright? You look sort of rough.” 

The first instinct was to evade again, but McCree figured he might as well tell someone. “Not really. Went up against Talon myself, recently.” 

Winston gaped. “Alone?” 

“Nah, not alone. Had help from a friend. Got away by the skin of my teeth, too.” And now he was going to throw himself right back into it. “Thanks for the concern, Winston. Can’t say you look too shabby yourself.” 

Winston laughed at that. It was strange to interact with someone who expressed their happiness so blatantly. McCree supposed he’d been hanging around a couple of the more depressing people in the world recently. He gave Winston a wink. “Send me those coordinates. I’ll do what I can.” 

“Take care of yourself McCree.” 

The call closed out and McCree stared at the screen for a long while before dropping the phone and falling back onto the bed. The room spun a bit so he closed his eyes, breathing out deeply through his nose. He took a moment to think on what he’d been doing with his life for the past few years, the past month, the time it had taken him to get from Mexico to this shithole. He needed to smoke. 

McCree fished around in his pocket, searching for a cigar, but his fingers instead closed around something silky. He pulled out a dirty handkerchief and blinked at it uncomprehendingly before it clicked. It was the hanky Hanzo had given him to store food what felt like ages ago. This was the first time he’d given the archer any serious thought since they’d parted and he couldn’t tell how he felt about it. 

It had been nice to have someone that had his back again. The last time he had that was in Blackwatch, and even then it was never certain whether or not he would be left behind. Reyes was an ass and Genji… Well, Genji hadn’t been all there. His thoughts strayed away from him and back onto Hanzo. The hell was he even doing now? Probably ass deep in business with his clan. 

McCree’s mind briefly touched over the time they had been together, the things they had run into and the bond that had formed before he’d been entirely aware of it. It was a strange one and he didn’t know how he felt about it. His thoughts touched briefly on his behavior the last night they had been together, but he decided it ultimately didn’t matter. He was never going to see the man again. 

That left the issue of the hanky. Part of him said to toss it. He wasn’t the type to keep around reminders. But another part of him said that if he went to the trouble of tossing it then he would be making some sort of point to himself and he didn’t much care for that. He stared at it for a while, then came to a conclusion. With a slight shrug to himself he brought the hanky to his nose and blew it. It was soft and he wondered what the hell Hanzo’s problem had been. A hanky was for using. 

He hoped that Hanzo, wherever he was, was alright. 

-

The singing whir of beams and pulse munitions filled the night sky. Tonight, the last contending yakuza leader had fallen to Hanzo’s hands. Three hours later, he was still evading pursuit. The Miyasaka group had eyes everywhere, hundreds of agents crawling through the streets like ants. Hanzo could feel their swarming presence wriggling in his skin. It took him every ounce of focus and reflexive skill to get just out of their reach. At any moment he could run into another enemy or be seen by someone playing the role of unwitting bystander. He could not afford to spend another long night on the run. Not again.

He slithered through some back alleys into some territory held by an enemy of the Miyasaka group. After a few minutes of frantic searching, he found an inconspicuous office building that looked like the perfect place to hunker down for a while. He climbed the side of the building and popped open a vent on the third floor, crawling in and closing the grate behind him. He shimmied further in, winding back and forth through a system of tight vents until he found a perfect spot settled between two other points of exit back to the outside of the building. He flattened himself and went silent, forcing himself to take slow and quiet breaths.

For a long time he lay there, listening intently to every other sound in the building. Every creak and vibration set him on edge. He felt the ants crawling up his arms and down his back, invisible hands reaching in to grasp at his feet. He closed his eyes tightly, willing away the vision. Footsteps outside, but far away. The hands came back, clawing and gripping at his calves. He shut his eyes even more tightly, starting up a count in his mind. He liked numbers with identical numerals, so he chose sixty-six and started counting. One, two, three. Gunshots. Ants. Swarms. Four, five, six, seven. Miyasaka himself falling, clutching at the arrow in his eye. Dozens of guns lifting and taking aim at all of Hanzo’s vitals. Hanzo kept listening and kept counting, getting stuck on the number forty-four, repeating it over and over in his mind. The repetition felt somewhat calming.

He felt like an hour had passed, but he couldn’t check the time. Should he start counting the minutes? More footsteps outside, closer, running through the alleys. He tensed and waited, repeating to himself, forty-four, forty-four, forty-four. He would kill them. He could do it. The only person who could stand up to him was Genji, a man strong enough to take down an army alone, and Hanzo had felled him easily. Though maybe if he had been expecting it, things would be different. Hanzo felt sick to his stomach, wondering why he had to think of that now. He was tired. He was so tired. They would never take him alive, and they’d never take him dead, because he had promised he would not die.

He jolted back into self-awareness, all external stimulus vanishing for a few moments. Remembering the promise brought him back to another time, not so long ago, where he had shadowed that reckless cowboy. The past few weeks had been a long, continuous smudge, filled with sleepless nights and paranoia. He had tried to banish Dorado from his mind completely, but sometimes, in moments like these, he remembered McCree. He had never missed McCree since they parted ways, but he kept coming back to mind. He was a memory, an established fact. Hanzo looked back on the times they drank together without fondness, but found himself grounded by the routine. He remembered their homemade shooting range, the Dorado wastelands, the omnic gangs, and the innkeeper who died because of them. A huge world outside of his cramped, hostile homeland rolled out in front of him.

He wondered if McCree was still planning to go after Talon by himself. If he were in Hanzo’s situation, he would probably be dead by now. He had no sense of self-preservation. Hanzo recalled the solemn look in the cowboy’s eyes as he drank himself into a stupor in their room, and felt his own strength rise. That had been so much tougher than this.

He bided his time for what felt like hours, waiting and listening, repeating that comforting number in the back of his mind until he was sure he had actually stayed a few hours. Then he carefully exited the vents, dropping down to the ground outside. He took off at a run, careful to keep his footsteps silent as he pulled out his communicator. He held it aloft, using its sensors to track significant surges of energy nearby, and adjusted his escape path to avoid those areas. He recalled with bemusement how McCree had once given him a strange look for using his communicator this way. That was back when they barely had a civil word to say to each other.

After another couple of hours meticulously tracing his way through enemy territory, he finally made it back to some of the more familiar paths in Hanamura that lead toward the Shimada compound. He had established a hideout nearby so he could lay low without posing a risk to the clan. It was just a small loft in a condemned apartment building, but that was better than nothing. Relief preemptively surged through him as he made his way to the apartment building and deftly scaled it, climbing through a half-boarded window on the second floor. He boarded it up the rest of the way once he was inside.

He dropped down to the floor, resting his back against the wall, and took some time to regain his breath. He had made it. He might have to move again when the Miyasaka thugs came looking for him, but the hardest part was over.

After he calmed down enough, he sent a coded message to Kazuya. He waited a few minutes, and soon enough, an encrypted call on a special channel came through. He accepted the call and Kazuya’s sullen face sprang up on the glitched display.

The first thing he asked was, “Is it done?”

Hanzo nodded stiffly. “I am now back at my hideout. I will stay hidden for the next few days and hope they relax their pursuit. Please let me know if they encroach on your territory and I will lead them away.”

“That should not be a problem. Our leader will soon put a wire out to meet with the new head of the Miyasaka group, and they will discuss. It will be a tense discussion, but if we handle it well, we can make it through unscathed.”

“Will you be going to that meeting?” Hanzo asked, mouth set in a thin line. Kazuya nodded again, hesitantly. “Be careful. And the other groups? Have you met with them yet?”

“Ashida has met with the Kondou. They were able to come to an understanding. According to reports, his righteous fury was extremely convincing,” Kazuya answered, face lined with disgust and unease.

The Shimada had chosen to disavow Hanzo’s actions wholeheartedly. Hanzo thought this was a poor tactic and that the other groups would never be fooled. However, Ashida had organized a few squads to stage a manhunt for Hanzo, and they took this act so seriously that Hanzo was almost badly wounded more than a few times. When the other groups saw the Shimada’s true, unwavering hatred for its former leader, their initially-hostile reactions cooled into a lesser animosity. Slowly but surely, their anger was shifting from the Shimada to just Hanzo.

Kazuya often expressed displeasure at this turn of events, but he had known this plan since before Hanzo arrived in Hanamura. They both participated in this operation with full knowledge that Hanzo had been sent into a trap. The continued disgust that Kazuya showed in spite of this almost angered Hanzo.

He was so tired. Kazuya was miles away, both in body and in heart.

“Things are proceeding according to plan,” Hanzo observed distantly. “I am glad. Now, I believe there is something you owe me.”

A look of hurt passed over Kazuya’s face, but he quickly regained his composure and sent over several large digital files. “Here’s all the information you requested.”

“You said I would have this after the end of the first assassination,” Hanzo reminded him sternly, already opening and loading the files.

Kazuya’s mouth clamped shut, muscles in his jaw flexing. “I know.”

“Perhaps that was not fair of me to say,” Hanzo admitted aloud. He met Kazuya’s eyes in the display, mustering up his last bit of compassion for his former friend. “Thank you for this. I know this comes at great risk to yourself. I will never forget it.”

“I wish I could do more for you,” Kazuya responded with quiet sincerity. “Now the whole of Japan is after you. Hanzo, I …”

Hanzo looked up at the familiar usage of his first name. Kazuya had not called him by his first name in years. Not even since they reunited. He watched Kazuya swallow a lump in his throat.

“After this is over, they have forbidden me from making contact with you. Their eyes are already watching closely. They will provide you with a means of escape from Japan, but after this, there ... there is nothing more I can do for you.”

“I see,” Hanzo murmured quietly, looking off toward the far wall. “I suppose I expected as much.”

“I hate this,” Kazuya ground out, eyes sharpening fiercely.

Again Hanzo’s attention was pulled back, and at seeing this first display of true emotion, he felt a protective urge rise in his heart. That warmth that had been lost between them flickered and tried to ignite. He realized apprehensively that the feeling was not unlike the camaraderie he had shared with McCree. An image of the cowboy’s whiskey-flecked eyes flashed through his mind, along with the feel of calloused fingertips in his skin.

He pressed a hand to his face, heart racing, and forcibly banished the thought. The realization had somehow tainted that wonderful, peaceful relationship he shared with Kazuya when they were young. He remembered a bright summer day when he and Kazuya had sat across from each other in the main hall, knees pressed together and leaning in close, avidly discussing Kazuya’s adventures out in the city. They heard a bang in the doorway and turned to see that Hanzo’s father was there. He gave Hanzo a weird look--not his usual look of disapproval, but something else with an even more powerful weight. He almost looked fearful, covering that fear with a shroud of scorn.

Maybe his father had known something like this would happen. Maybe he could see in Hanzo’s behavior a signal or an invitation for something improper. Perhaps that was what he had tried to protect Hanzo from when he gave scoldings for spending too much time with subordinates.

“Hanzo,” Kazuya spoke pleadingly. When Hanzo uncovered his eyes, Kazuya had gotten himself under control.

“You must take care of yourself,” Hanzo told him. “If that means we must part ways, then so be it. You have sacrificed much for me, and I will always value the bond we had.”

Kazuya was silent for a few moments. His lip quivered and his eyes searched Hanzo’s. Eventually he replied with somber finality, “And I as well.”

Not wanting to linger on their separation, Hanzo pushed forward. “Is there anything further the Shimada require of me?”

Again, Kazuya’s expression tightened into a mask of anger. “There is something they wish me to ask of you, but I would rather not ask it.”

“This is your job,” Hanzo told him firmly. “Tell me, and I will make a decision for myself.”

At the admonition, Kazuya sobered up. He nodded and explained, “The omnic population in Japan has become a lot more contentious over the past few years. They are dissatisfied with the current government and are demanding sanctions against discrimination. Some fear this resistance is on the cusp of turning violent.”

“That is the government’s problem, not ours,” Hanzo frowned. When he realized he said “ours” he scowled even further. He had to be careful or he would slip back into the same clan mindset.

“They are particularly angry with the illegal trafficking of omnics among the yakuza. Right now, omnic trafficking is our main bargaining chip with other groups. The government fears a revolution, and has been taking steps to prepare. They’ve been working with the U.S. to try and establish countermeasures.”

Another file popped up on Hanzo’s screen, displaying some intercepted communications. Hanzo scanned the words as he listened to Kazuya talk.

“An American manufacturer has developed an electromagnetic pulse device as an anti-omnic weapon. It has a five-mile blast radius. American and Japanese lawmakers alike are in a race to get their hands on it.” He paused, then added, “So is Talon.”

“A kill-switch,” Hanzo muttered. He closed his eyes. He saw the face of the omnic innkeeper, lifeless and leaking oil. He tried to imagine thousands of omnics just like it, being permanently deactivated by a trigger-happy politician. Or worse yet, Talon.

Kazuya continued, “The blueprints for this weapon are hidden in a specific droid. If we could capture that droid and confiscate the blueprints, the Shimada would have another crucial bargaining chip--one that would be useful in talks with other groups, the government, and the omnics themselves.”

“Why ask me to do it? I should think you would not need a scapegoat for this mission. Or are you afraid of being targeted by Talon?” Hanzo hadn’t meant for that to come out sounding like an accusation. 

Kazuya merely shook his head. “There’s no one else skilled enough to do it. And anyone who might be a good candidate is too scared of making that many enemies. But truthfully, there is no point for you to risk yourself any farther. You have already done so much.”

“I will think about it,” Hanzo promised.

“You don’t have to.”

Hanzo insisted, “I will think about it.”

Kazuya opened and closed his mouth, wanting to argue further. Eventually he conceded with a sigh, “That is all I ask.”

They set a time later in the week to speak once more and then hung up. Hanzo put aside the communications file for the time being and eagerly opened up the information Kazuya had compiled for him. The files were overflowing with information about the former Overwatch. He paged through thick paragraphs of text describing their infamous collapse.

The information was somewhat limited, since certain things were never reported publicly or revealed before Overwatch’s members had scattered. However, Kazuya had been able to garner a rough sequence of events from some rumors that floated through his network of confidantes. Internal conflict grew exponentially over the last few years of Overwatch’s existence. Reports of illegal activity by the Blackwatch leader, Gabriel Reyes, significantly tarnished the organization’s reputation. Jack Morrison, the overall leader of Overwatch, had also come under fire for certain political alliances. The resulting collapse was believed to result from an ensuing conflict between both leaders.

In the file, Hanzo found a picture of Jack Morrison, young and blonde and looking thoroughly like a stereotypical Western gaijin. In the same picture, he saw a dark-skinned man with a beard and black attire. This man was labeled “Gabriel Reyes.” He paused over this picture, looking at the two men standing side by side. So this was the man who had become Reaper. This was the man who had taken in McCree, only to put a gun to his head. He had seen his face in the news but only just now did he connect this man with the masked phantom he had seen in Dorado.

He next pulled up the information about Morrison and Reyes specifically, scrolling through. A lot of this information was stuff he already knew from his time with the Shimada. Finding nothing immediately eye-grabbing, he then turned to his third subject of inquiry: McCree himself. Kazuya’s report titled him as “Jesse McCree,” the first name likely being a fake. Blackwatch operative, working with Overwatch at the time of the collapse, and former leader of a gang on Route 66 called the Deadlock Gang. That last piece of information was new. Hanzo took a long look at the details, unable to suppress his curiosity. Apparently this gang had accrued some serious influence and firepower. It took Overwatch’s intervention to subdue their activity.

Included was a mugshot taken of McCree when Overwatch first took him in. Hanzo was shocked by the fiery youth in his face, so different and yet so alike his current self. Instead of a beard he sported a small goatee and thick sideburns. Kazuya reported his current status as unknown. Most presumed he was dead, but no body had been recovered.

Pulling his attention from that, Hanzo scanned through the last piece of information he had requested. It had taken some digging, but Kazuya was able to confirm Hanzo’s suspicions. A rumor was floating around that Overwatch might be trying to reorganize itself. There was not enough evidence to fully substantiate those claims yet, but for Hanzo, the whispers were enough. McCree had been telling the truth. He had told the truth about everything. And if Hanzo’s instincts were right, he was surely thinking about returning to work with Overwatch.

He laid his head back against the wall, eyes idly scanning the lines of text. He felt some sense of relief, or closure. Though McCree had seemed completely untrustworthy, he had actually spoken honestly. That meant Hanzo could be at peace knowing his efforts went to something worthwhile. The time they spent together, as comrades and warriors, was untouched by espionage. The thought of how they ended their acquaintanceship still horrified him, but now he could enjoy what it had once been without regret.

He would never see McCree again. That stupid idiot. He was probably off somewhere, risking his life unnecessarily. Running headlong into a fight with Talon. Probably went back to California, too, against Hanzo’s advice. He couldn’t help snorting to himself. Stupid cowboy. If they ever met again, he would have to give him a piece of his mind.

No. No, he told himself, shaking his head, it is better to never meet again. Just leave the memory unspoiled, undisturbed, so that they never had to talk about the night they were both drunk and he felt hands where no man’s hands should ever go. Hanzo had already kept his promise. He had assisted McCree on his mission. There was no reason for them to speak even if they crossed paths again. It was better this way.

Hanzo pulled himself up from the ground, leveraging himself on the windowsill. As he moved, something fell out of his gi and fluttered to the floor. He stared at it in confusion, eyes widening--his handkerchief. He knelt down and grasped the silk, a familiar and comfortable frustration bubbling up in his chest.

He left his other handkerchief with that goddamned idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are close to meeting up again! Hope the separation wasn't too torturous. We'll do our best to get their reunion chapter out to you a little sooner than this last one came. Hope you guys are all doing well, and that you enjoy reading. Thanks so much for all your wonderful feedback, too! We absolutely love talking to you and seeing your thoughts. You all bring us so much joy.


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